


#Parkour Responsibly

by iplierfic



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jack's here now (as of Chapter 5), Mark gets hurt a lot, Rated T for swearing, Shenanigans, Whump, all's well that ends well, because he's a goofus and his friends are enablers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iplierfic/pseuds/iplierfic
Summary: Team Iplier being garbo, AKA failed challenges and other shenanigans resulting in some light whumpage, largely heaped upon Mark.





	1. #Parkour Responsibly

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody!
> 
> Because I, too, am garbo, I couldn't resist a little Markiplier whump. If you also like Markiplier whump, I hope you'll enjoy this fic! I do request that you keep this fandom fun where it belongs and don't introduce any aspect of this story to any member of Team Iplier. I'm trying to stay as "canon" as possible in terms of relationship dynamics, but naturally, some liberties must be taken.

“Hullo, everybody, my name is Markiplier, and welcome to the Heelys Challenge!  Today I’m joined by my friends, champion of soul-sucking stares and wielder of a massive pee—nor, Ty-lore!  E-tan’s also here.”

 

E-tan raises his hand.  “’Sup, Markiplier’s twelve subscribers.”

 

“That’s right, welcome, one and twelve, to the Heelys Challenge!” Mark reiterates, clasping his hands.  He’s got pink sunglasses on his head and matching crocs on his feet, as well as a festive Hawaiian tee and black gym shorts.  As a final touch, he has knee and elbows pads on.  “Today, we will be reinvigorating the trendiest of trendy memes, the coolest of cool games, the skatiest of skate sports—”

 

“We’re gonna try to not die,” Tyler clarifies helpfully, leaning into the frame and holding up a pair of Heelys.

 

“TyLOR,” Mark rebukes.  Ethan shoves Tyler playfully aside, making them both giggle.  “So, we’re gonna be tryin’ to die,” Mark continues, nonplussed, as he nods at the camera.  “Don’t worry, we brought all our fun skating equipment along for the ride.  Last time we tried these bad boys on we didn’t get too far, but we’ve been practicing—”

 

“‘Practicing,’” Ethan chimes in.

 

“And we’re getting pretty bad at it, so before we get any worse, we figured we’d attempt the world record for the longest … shortest … longest short-run on Heelys.  And YOU will see it here,” he adds, pointing right at the camera, planting his feet super-heroically apart.  Tyler snickers.  Ethan laughs.  “Brace yourself, gird your loins, and prepare for awesomeness!”

 

“My loins are girded!” Ethan assures, crouching like a Sumo wrestler and slapping his own gym-short clad thighs.

 

It’s the perfect scene cut as Mark and Tyler bray with laughter, Mark insisting through giggles, “God dammit, Ethan, I just want _one_ good intro—”

 

“That intro was good!” Ethan assures.  The camera is still on, but Mark charged it, so they aren’t scrambling to turn off the red eye of God before their cameras die.  Being prepared is a rare and beautiful phenomenon. 

 

Inhaling deeply, Mark exhales gustily, poppin’ a squat on the edge of the open van to kick off his crocs and put on his own pair of Heelys.  It’s nice out here in the desert: hot, dry, and beautiful.  The road stretches off into the wilder endlessly in either direction (an hour from the nearest town, and two from the nearest city – exactly the kind of empty space that Team Markiplier needs to be uninhibited doofuses).  They’ve got a whole slew of party tricks in the van, including chalk for the Hopscotch Challenge and Fruit Roll-Ups for the Fruit Roll-Up Speed-Eating Challenge, but they’ll get to those after goofing off in the skates for a bit.

 

As soon as he pushes off the door, Mark finds himself faltering.  Arms pinwheeling, he chants, “Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

 

“Y’okay there, big guy?” Ethan teases, gymnast extraordinaire, catching him by the shoulders as he glides forward involuntarily.  Ethan’s grip firms substantially, and inside three seconds Mark finds his ground.

 

Arms straight out and bent double, Mark recovers, announcing to the camera: “This is the duet portion of the Heelys Challenge.  As you can see, this is the … Agony of the Swan in … Existential Labor, Preparing to Birth the Universe.”

 

“Please do not finish that dance,” Ethan implores, tugging on the back of Mark’s shirt to straighten him.  Tyler is sitting on the ground nearby, his pants protecting his legs from the roasting pavement as he fixes his own Heelys in place.  “How’s it going there, Peebs?” Ethan calls out.

 

Amy finishes the chalk starting line in the pavement and holds up an OK sign.  “Whenever you boys are ready,” she adds, rounding back to stand behind the camera.

 

Unbeknownst to the red eye of God, Mark ducks behind it and kisses her cheek.  “You’re an American treasure,” he tells her sincerely.

 

She pinches his nose affectionately.  “Goof.”

 

Grinning, he tiptoes back over to the chalk starting line.  After Tyler gets up and penguin-marches over to them, he addresses the camera again, stating, “Now, this isn’t a race – we’re just trying to see how far we can handle these bad boys.”

 

“We’re destined to fail,” Ethan confirms.

 

“This is, of course, the first and only time we have ever purposefully endangered ourselves for the entertainment of our viewers,” Tyler adds, planting a crushing hand on Mark’s shoulder to keep his own balance.  “So, you’re welcome.”

 

“But luckily, we’re not stupid enough that we forgot our knee pads,” Mark adds cheerfully, slapping one heartily.  “Couldn’t break it open with a diamond saw.”

 

“Impervious,” Ethan adds dryly.

 

“All right, you – lazy sons-of-guns, which one-a-ya is goin’ first?” Mark asks, poking Ethan in the chest.

 

Tyler flicks up both hands, fist planted on his palm.  “Let’s—”

 

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Ethan finishes, mirroring him as Mark does the same.

 

“Excellent i-de-a, Ty-lore,” Mark says, laying on a thick, ridiculous Slavic accent.  Accents are good because they help him keep up his stage persona: peppy, overcaffeinated, high-pitched screaming Markiplier TM, at your service.  Of course, Mark Fischbach, no copyright, is also a peppy, overcaffeinated, high-pitched screamer, but he’s not as likely to burst out in song in public. 

 

So, really, stage persona is code for “everybody loves you, you’re gonna rock this, they’re all wearing tutus.”  He imagines it’s how Arnold Schwarzenegger feels every time he goes to the gym.  If he even goes to the gym.  Somehow the thought is hilarious and wrong, like imagining an alien poppin’ a squat on their van.  To be fair, they _did_ make up a whole scenario with aliens kidnapping him on a hypothetical first date, so it’s hardly outside the realm of—

 

Ethan calls his name, not for the first time, and Mark shakes his head to clear it, refocusing.  That’s another snipped scene, he thinks ruefully, playing along but mentally berating himself for his distraction.  He doesn’t like choppy footage; it doesn’t flow naturally without an editor’s sweet, sweet touch, and his three AM self, drooling at the keyboard over the thirty-seventh listen-through of this particular video, does not enjoy the task of fixing his fuck-ups.

 

Duking it out with the boys, Mark flunks out first, which leads to a few seconds of confused back-and-forth banter to the effect of “wait, does the _winner_ go first, or the _loser_.”  Within seconds, they sort it out, and Mark readies himself at the start line.  With dramatic conviction, he strikes an Olympic runner’s pose, complete with one hand on the scorching pavement, and Ethan popping the fake gun doesn’t happen a moment too soon as he surges forward.

 

He doesn’t _try_ to go Sonic the Hedgehog fast, but his Heelys have other plans, propelling him at improbably swift speeds.  Rocketing ahead – clocking at least 150 miles per hour, he’s sure – he belts out, “Viva la Heely revolution!”  Tyler and Ethan laugh behind him, with Tyler’s shout of “go, Mark, go!” nearly lost to the screaming moment, literally and metaphorically.

 

Then it all comes crashing down.  In slow motion, he trips.  His knees hit the pavement hard, pads doing their job but shins taking a beating on the egg-cooking-pavement, and he barely has time to register that he’s stopped moving before his left arm cr-a-a- _acks_ against the pavement as it breaks his fall.  Pain surges up to his shoulder, and he gasps in surprise.

 

The fall is too violent, too sudden for the viewers; they have to redo the take, he thinks nonsensically, trying to leverage himself to his feet without touching any of his limbs to the searing pavement.  It’s not working well, and he’s groaning more at the searing heat than the searing pain lancing up into his bones.  His bones.  He finally looks at his left arm and nearly passes out.

 

“Oh, boy,” he exhales, staring at the disfigured limb, ashen-faced and stunned.  “Um, guys?” he adds, voice breathless and faltering.  The gang is already closing in quick, Ethan in the lead.  “I think – ohhhh, it’s broken,” he grunts, sitting up.  “Ow, fuck.”

 

“Fuck, Mark,” Ethan says, kneeling next to him, heedless of the hot rock on his shins as he puts an arm around Mark’s back, stabilizing him.  “Can’t half-ass anything, can you?”  His teasing tone falls short; there’s real concern in his voice.  Mark grunts, breathing through his mouth, closing his eyes to shove back the pain.  He’s eaten plenty of ghost peppers, wasabi, and other horrible concoctions, but few things compare to the sharp, electrifying throb of a broken bone.

 

“You’re okay,” Tyler says, big, reassuring, Herculean Tyler, suddenly close.  Mark opens his eyes to look at him, hearing movement in the distance, and the van starting up.  Crouching beside them, Tyler helps Ethan leverage Mark back to his feet.  The van revs up and approaches them, moving slow.  “Everything’s gonna be fine,” Tyler says, and Mark realizes that he’s shaking a little, grateful for the arm Tyler has around his back.

 

Ethan starts, “Should we wrap it, or—”

 

“In a minute,” Tyler deflects.  Mark grits his teeth, holding up his arm.  Even on his ever-growing list of stupid ideas, this ranks in the top ten.  _Who knew Heelys would finally do me in_ , he thinks, and wonders if that little red eye isn’t still watching him.

 

It isn’t – Kathryn would never leave their equipment out to dry like that – but he still feels the spotlight when the van halts near them.  He takes a few shaky steps towards it, Ethan and Tyler escorting him like he’s made of glass _and_ explosive.  He wants to snap at them to back up, sweat dappling his brow, and ends up sitting heavily on the open van.  Kathryn has the air-conditioner on high.  He grimaces, a thin, whining noise slipping past his mouth.

 

Time gets a little slippery, then, as he slides into the van.  Being manhandled into place, he tries to cooperate and ends up just clutching his arm to his chest.  His breathing is a little too fast, approaching hyperventilating territory.  Desperate to lighten the situation, he croaks, “What’re we gonna call this dance move?”

 

“Uh, ‘get Mark to the hospital that’s conveniently located two hours from our current location’?” Ethan suggests.

 

Mark grimaces.  Tyler uses a spare shirt to form a makeshift sling for his arm.  “That’s not gonna fit in a YouTube title,” Mark points out slowly.

 

“Says you,” Ethan retorts.

 

Mark opens his own mouth to reply and lets out a sharp cry when Tyler finally gets the sling in place.  “Sorry, sorry,” Tyler says, adjusting the sling, uninterrupted.

 

“S’all right,” Mark groans, trying not to kick him out of range.  “Good – scout skills.”

 

Tyler huffs and sits back on his haunches.  “Yeah, you keep ‘em sharp,” he tells Mark, and taps the back of the driver’s seat.  “Go ahead, Kat.”

 

“Everybody inside the van?” Kat confirms.

 

“Ethan’s tied to the roof,” Tyler deadpans, while Ethan himself makes an affirmative sound from the front passenger’s seat.

 

Amy slides into the space beside Mark, gently forcing Tyler to scoot into the opposite corner.  “Hi,” Mark greets, speaking through his teeth.  “Gonna have to film another video.”

 

“One problem at a time,” Amy says.  He buries his face in her shoulder, hating the sudden tears in his eyes.  Her hand rises to cup the back of his neck, scruffing his hair gently, grip, release, familiarly soft.  “Hey.  It’s okay.”

 

“I know,” he tells her shoulder, so soft he knows that even Tyler can’t hear it over the van.  “’m sorry.”

 

She squeezes his neck, crowding closer as Kat drives.  He loses track of time to the splintering throb of his heartbeat in his arm, cradled to his chest.  Ethan takes control of the AUX cord and gets in a spirited debate with Tyler about his music selections, complete with a bouncer that he cranks up to a window-rattling volume.  “CAN YOU HEAR IT NOW, MR. KRABS?” Ethan belts, startling a snort from Mark’s chest.

 

God, he loves these idiots. 

 

The dull, rocketing pain in his arm is almost bearable after forty minutes on the road, and he’s throwing out suggestions of taking a four-hour sojourn to Cracker Barrel before the hour is out.  Tyler finally climbs over the median and seizes the AUX cord from Ethan and plays his usual garbage, making Ethan whine because “hey, shotgun calls the shots.”

 

In response, Tyler flexes his arm and says, “Fight me.”

 

Wisely, Ethan declines.

 

Four hours – _four!_ So much for the eight AM enthusiasm of “wow, gang, we’re on schedule!” – later, they’re back to their usual nonsense.  Crowding onto an outdoor table, sharing a round of smoothies, they chill in the California sun while Ethan pulls out his phone and vlogs.  “So, we kinda broke Markiplier,” he introduces, Mark flipping him off with his right hand jovially in the background, left arm bound in a pink cast.  “Never challenge this man’s pride.  He will hurt himself proving it.”

 

 _Damn right,_ Mark thinks, sliding off his seat and squeezing onto Ethan’s, nearly knocking him off the chair.  Ethan laughs, struggling to keep his ground while Mark takes Ethan’s phone and announces, “Parkour responsibly, kids.”

 

“Get it trending,” Ethan advises, reclaiming his phone and mimicking Mark’s peace sign.  “Hashtag Parkour Responsibly.  And don’t worry, we’re postponing the Cliff-Diving Challenge until Markimoo’s boo-boo heals.”

 

The clip ends with Tyler asking loudly in the background: “The _what_ challenge?”

 

Just another day on Team Iplier, Mark muses amiably, a little stoned from the drugs and damned pleased with the neon pink cast they gave him at the hospital.  And who knows, cliff-diving _does_ sound fun.

 

Amy sneaks an arm around his waist, says pointedly, “No” and he nods, conceding to her better, non-drugged judgment.

 

He might be the clumsiest idiot, but he’s also the luckiest.


	2. LAUNCHING MARK INTO SPACE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, rapscallions, let's do this! I'm treating this like a quasi-continuous story, but each installment will be pretty independent and can be read as a standalone. Hope you enjoy! If you have any suggestions, feel free to drop 'em below.

“Hullo, everybody, my name is Markiplier, and today, we’re launching Ethan into the sun!  Because it’s hot and he’s – well, not _cool_ , but he’s lukewarm, a very medium boy – that sounds like we’re selling him, OKAY, we’re shooting him into the sun because he’s probably combustible.  It’ll be a cool light show.  Point your telescopes at the sun now!!  Get ready for the world’s most anticlimactic finish.”

 

“I think we both know what the _real_ world’s most anticlimactic finish is,” Ethan chimes in, pointing a thumb indiscreetly at Mark.

 

Tyler, off-screen, wheezes with laughter.  Mark rolls with it, saying simply, “Proudly sponsored by the Disney company, folks!  We don’t even know what the fuck word is.”  He fishes a keychain out of his pocket and presses a pre-recorded laugh track, expression completely flat.  Ethan claps a few times, off-beat and slow.  It’s incredibly awkward.  Mark loves it.

 

“You gunna tell them what we’re actually up to?” Tyler prompts, hanging out off-screen, the camera bobbing just a little.  Their camera stabilizers are bitching, but Mark loves the shaky “just guys bein’ dudes” vibe that handheld footage gives.

 

“Just shake it like a rubber chicken,” Mark advised before they started rolling.

 

“You mean _this—_ ” Tyler clarified, miming jerking off.  Mark shot him a thumbs-up.

 

“We’re launching Ethan into the sun,” Mark says simply, walking to the right and drawing the camera’s gaze with him.  A seesaw comes into frame, and Mark pops a squat on one end.  “Get with the program.”

 

“Sure you’re _girthy_ enough?” Ethan teases, sliding onto the opposite end.  He balances Mark out pretty well, and after some finessing, Mark succeeds in sitting cross-legged on his side, the handle between his legs.  “Might need Tyler to give us a hand,” Ethan adds, mirroring him.  With neither braced on the ground, the seesaw bobs a few times, nearly dislodging Ethan.  When it equalizes, Mark is several inches off the ground, and Ethan is a few above the central line.  Mark’s chest puffs up.  _Hell_ yeah.

 

“Okay, so, the real challenge is to see who loses the balloon first,” Mark continues breezily, ego sufficiently stoked.

 

“What balloon?” Tyler asks.

 

“ _This_ balloon,” Mark replies, dramatically pulling one of out his pocket and inflating it.  “First person to drop the balloon or fall off, loses,” he explains.  “If we both make it to three minutes without dropping the balloon or falling off, then we rock-paper-scissors to see who swaps with Tyler.  First person to ten points wins.  One point per round for the winner.  You ready?” he asks Ethan, holding up the balloon like a tennis player.  It’s no mean feat – his left arm is still sporting that gorgeous pink cast, so he has to work around it – but Ethan nods and slaps his chest with both palms, come-at-me-bro.

 

“I was _born_ —” Mark smacks the balloon across the seesaw and Ethan throws himself to the left to keep it in bounds, launching it back before Mark’s rapier wit can kick in.  They swat the balloon back-and-forth for almost thirty seconds, seesaw teetering with every lunge, but Ethan’s rebound finally fails to cross the median and, with a sad little, “Oh noooooo,” he watches it hit the ground.

 

“Goooooal!” Mark crows, punching the air.  Before he can brace for impact, Ethan hops off his seat and sends Mark crashing back down.  He clonks his cast pretty hard on the handle, but it’s a tough fucker; his arm just reverberates for a moment before it passes.  His balls, on the other hand – “ _Oww._ ”

 

“Y’okay?” Tyler asks.

 

“Show me what you got,” Mark challenges instead, voice a little tight, carefully rearranging himself on the seat and gripping the handle firmly.  Ethan trades the balloon for the camera, and Tyler straddles the saddle, both feet on the ground, keeping his weight off it.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Tyler acknowledges, grinning.

 

“Probably,” Ethan agrees, and then Tyler takes a seat and Mark fucking _bounces_ to the top of the seesaw.

 

“I don’t know if I _want_ to win this one,” he grunts, doubled over, resisting the urge to curl into a ball like an armadillo and roll away.  Honestly, that would be badass.  Where’s a Genie when he needs one?  He takes a moment, knowing that they can edit it out later, and finally pushes himself back up and says, “Okay, maybe bring five percent less of that—”

 

Grinning fiendishly, Tyler says, “You mean this?” And lifts himself partially up off the seat, only to sit down again _hard_.  Mark bounces again, shouting “fuUUUUUH” in a spirited attempt to keep from swearing at a playground.  It’s pretty far out and empty this late on a Wednesday afternoon, but still – think of the children!

 

“I hate you, and everything you stand for,” he wheezes, unfolding his legs so he can brace them on the ground.  It doesn’t alter Tyler’s stance or shit-eating grin.  Mark pouts, taking a seat, left arm on the handle, right arm up in the air, positioning himself in a jaunty bull-riding pose.  “All right, you – yellow-bellied, good for nothin’ _cheater_ —”

 

Tyler launches the balloon, and Mark slam-dunks it so hard on the third return that it bounces off the ground between them before Tyler makes a lunging dive and saves it.  It crosses the median, but it’s too close for a good return shot, and Mark nearly topples out of his seat volleying it back.  On instinct, Tyler smacks the balloon forward, and it bounces off Mark’s forehead, making both of them laugh so hard Mark misses the return.

 

“Thank _fuck_ ,” he says empathically, children forgotten.  More relieved to be off the ball-crushing death trap than disappointed at the loss, he hops off and takes the cam from Ethan.

 

“I don’t like this,” Ethan says, gingerly stepping over the seat.  Tyler pushes up with his legs, driving the swing down, before letting it settle, threatening to bounce Ethan to the moon.  “Oh, I do _not_ like this.”

 

“C’mon, ya big baby,” Mark says.  “Get in the saddle.  Knock that douu—ude off.”

 

Ethan and Tyler close in on the three-minute mark before Tyler spikes the balloon and it pops on the ground, startling all three of them.  “I win!” Ethan laughs, thrusting both arms in the air and yelping when Tyler stands, sending him plummeting earthward.  “You’re the worst!”

 

“I don’t think that counts as a _loss_ ,” Tyler points out.  “You didn’t return it.”

 

“It was out of bounds,” Ethan retorts.

 

“Here, hold this,” Mark instructs, ignoring their bickering as he hands Ethan the camera and fishes another balloon from his pocket.

 

“See, I win,” Tyler says smugly.  Without warning, he shifts his weight to his planted feet and Mark really wonders just how wild the footage is going to be at the end of all this, given how hard Ethan smacks the ground.  “You have the camera.  Move.”

 

“Foul play,” Ethan croaks, both feet firmly planted on the ground to counteract future attempts.

 

“It can’t be foul play if it’s not in the rules.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Mark carefully ties off the second balloon.  He doesn’t realize he’s surpassed critical mass until he passes it to Tyler with a hearty admonishment of “here, take this” and it explodes mid-air.

 

A beat.  “…Nope,” he says, fishing a third balloon from his pocket, making Ethan and Tyler laugh.

 

By popped balloon number five, Ethan asks between giggles, “Do you need a hand, Mark?”

 

“No,” he says stubbornly, making himself lightheaded as he chases Number Six.  He manages to get it inflated and tied off without popping it, pitching it to Tyler.  Pulling a cheap plastic whistle from his pocket, he blows it loudly.  “Resume play.”

 

“Wait, who won the last match?” Tyler asks, but Mark takes the camera from Ethan, steps back to get them both in the frame, and Tyler launches the balloon without further prompting back.

 

They only make it to the fifty-second mark before Ethan finally drops the balloon, and Mark switches places with him – twice – as Tyler knocks them both out in quick succession, fourteen and thirty-two seconds later.  Mark dares to hope that Tyler will wipe the floor with them and they’ll be able to wrap the challenge inside thirty minutes, minimizing the potential for ball-crushing, but Ethan decides to make a comeback, and Mark’s pride won’t suffer a deliberate loss, so he gives as good as he gets.  The forty-five-minute mark passes without a clear leader.

 

By balloon number nine, Mark almost concedes to let Ethan take over balloon replacement duties, but once he starts something, he can’t _not_ finish it.  He’s the official balloon replacer.  His manly man-pride tells him to buck up.  He pops balloon number nine and moves onto ten without missing a beat.

 

Sixty-two long minutes later, and Tyler and Ethan square off for Tyler’s winning shot, Ethan’s third-to-winning shot.  Because they’re dicks who actively conspire against him (of this, Mark is sure), Tyler falters and drops the balloon.  Mark subs in, resisting the urge to pull the pity card of “hey, I have a broken arm, be _nice_.”  His arm is fine.  Aching a little, but nothing compared to his legs.  Sitting in an actual saddle is less punishing.  “All right, Blue Boy,” he grunts, grimly determined.  “Do your worst.”

 

Ethan’s worst is still better than Tyler’s best, Mark reflects, which is why it’s ludicrous for him from a self-preservation standpoint to knock Ethan out in six seconds.  Two serves.  Two!  He’s only up to seven points, meaning he has to survive _at least_ three more rounds of this if he wants to win, and Tyler is going for the _win_ , making him even more lethal.  Mark considers going full self-preservation and maintaining a defensive position, but he can’t edit the _winning shot_ from a challenge video.  He either takes this like a man, or he cowers.

 

Cowboying up, he says, “Come at me.”

 

Tyler serves.  He goes easy on Mark, which means Mark’s spike actually catches him off guard.  Ethan is ruthless, but Mark holds his ground tit-for-tat, barely avoiding narrow defeat after sixty-eight seconds.  Tied with Tyler for the lead, he grins.  “Hey, Tyler,” he says conversationally.

 

Warily, Tyler sits, not putting his full weight on the seat.  “Hey, Mark.”

 

“Wanna make a bet?”

 

Tyler lifts both eyebrows.  “Do I?”

 

“You really do,” Ethan advises.

 

“If I win, you owe me twenty bucks.”

 

“Vice-versa?”

 

“Double.  I’ll give you forty.”

 

Tyler grins.  “Deal.”

 

“You have literally just incentivized him to destroy you,” Ethan points out lightly.

 

 _Yup._ “I don’t do anything halfway,” Mark tells the camera, balloon tucked safely under his arm.  “Don’t be like Markiplier.”  Squaring up for the serve, he tells Tyler, “May the best loser win.”

 

It’s a duly thrilling round that lasts fully six-and-a-half minutes – Ethan forgets to set the timer, and Mark is too invested in the actual game to check in – but in the end, brute willpower triumphs over brute force.  Exhausted but fully into it, he launches the balloon back with just enough leftward tilt that Tyler can’t launch it back over the median.

 

Ethan crows with delight, shaking the camera as he canters over for a close-up, asking, “Mr. Markiplier, Mr. Markiplier, how does it feel to win the Seesaw Balloon Toss Tournament?”

 

“Feels great,” Mark says breezily.  “We’re never doing this again.”

 

“You heard it here first, folks,” Ethan says breathlessly, embracing his sports anchor persona as he turns the camera to face himself.  “From the man, the myth, the legend himself, Markiplier ‘Tiny’ Fischbach Tim: ‘We’re never doing this again!’” 

 

It’s a good cut-point, which is why Mark should be wary of what happens next, but he’s too happy to clamber off the seat to notice that Tyler is just standing over his own, not off it.  Before he can course-correct and sit down, Tyler does, and Mark gets forcefully thrown from the saddle in the process.  “Oh, shit,” Tyler says immediately, and Mark groans, a pile of soreness pressed against the grass.

 

“Thank you, Tyler,” he tells the dirt.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Ethan caught the final jump on film and uses it as a post-outro clip, complete with Mark mumbling, “I’m just gonna join the worms now.”  He doesn’t bother getting up because eventually, he knows, Tyler will take pity on him.  True to his personality, Tyler bops over, grabbing a fistful of the back of his jacket and hauling Mark back to his feet. 

 

For good measure, he slaps some of the dirt from Mark’s front.  “Good as new,” he says, fishing out his wallet and handing him a twenty.  “Fair’s fair.”

 

“I feel like you’re paying me so you can beat me up morally,” Mark grumbles. 

 

“You started it.”

 

“I’m untrustworthy.  Never trust me.”

 

“Got it.”  He scrubs some dirt from Mark’s cast, adding, “You okay?  I didn’t think you’d go that far.”

 

“I’m very buoyant,” Mark tells him, making him snort.  Turning back to Ethan, already replacing the camera in its bag, he asks, “You want McDonald’s?  Tyler’s treating."  He waves the twenty.

 

It’s an all’s well that ends well kind of day, he thinks, as Ethan shows him the thumbnail.  It’s Mark in his bull-riding pose on the seesaw at peak height, complete with the screaming title of “LAUNCHING MARK INTO SPACE.”

 

“Sounds right,” Mark allows, biting another McNugget.

 

Ethan promptly types _Part 1_ in the title and Mark grunts, “Don’t even _joke_.”


	3. NERF WARS: IN THE DARK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more garbo! Thanks for the kudos.

You need two hands to fire a gun.

 

It’s a fact that occurs to Mark belatedly.  Prowling through the dark, he keeps his weapon against his right shoulder, trying not to trip over anything.  He can hold the gun, he can pull the trigger, but he can’t aim and fire it properly.  He needs two hands.  With his left hand trapped in the cast, he only has one.

 

There are five wolves hiding in the dark, and he cannot fire his gun.

 

…This is a problem.

 

But Team Edge didn’t invite him to play blind Nerf tag for him to cop out at the starting line.  They’ve been planning this collab for weeks, dancing around each other’s schedules.  Just when they _finally_ nailed down a date, Matthias got sick, and they had to push the meetup back another month. 

 

Another month.  Just like that.  Life marched on.

 

Sometimes life moved too quickly.

 

Mark slows his pace unconsciously, ducking behind a door and sinking against the wall, breathing shallowly.   _Shh_ , he tells his uncooperative hands, fumbling with the gun.  He can do this.  Just get it to fire.  Why didn’t he think to test this out sooner?  Doesn’t matter.  He loves a handicap.  Hell, he’ll pay a premium on a handicap.  Wherever he can find ‘em, he takes ‘em.  They’re good for him.

 

Something about the disruption keeps him humble.  Sure, he’s an egotistical bastard, but it’s the stage persona.  The “real” Mark – he snorts softly aloud, rearranging the gun until it’s planted firmly against his shoulder – is the stage Mark.  Ethan and he talked about it once, musing on the merits of the “ _you_ don’t create, _your mind_ creates” attitude.  He called it Confucian bullshit.  Ethan laughed, but it was true.

 

_I am my mind._

He is the stage persona, and the stage persona needs to get his act together and go get those wolves before they start wondering why the hunter is hiding from them.

 

_I’ve got the gun.  I’ve got the power.  Use it._

He can’t risk popping off a shot to see if his tentative hold will work, but he dares to assume it will as he slinks back out of the room.  He stays low, half-crouched, Go Pro strapped to his head, recording everything in night vision.  They’ll have to cut out the side footage – there’s no point in including almost a minute of blank fumbling in a corner; he’ll have to condense it to a few seconds and hope the glitch passes modest scrutiny – but he tries to focus on the present task: hunt.

 

The others can move freely, but they’re unarmed and blind.  In the blacked-out office, the darkness stretches infinitely, creating a space in time where time barely exists.  Mark stays close to the nearest wall.  Team Edge has the inherent advantage of working here, living here, knowing the place well enough to know its edges even in the dark.  Mark doesn't let it bother him, navigating deeper into the den.

 

Without warning, he hears movement just behind him.

 

Planting his feet, he swivels sharply and fires one-handed.  He hears Bryan's laugh and half-exasperated, half-amused cry of, “ _Every time_.”  Then, loudly, he proclaims: “I’m out.  I’m out.” 

 

Mark exhales shallowly.  One down.  Four to go.

 

They’ve set up the rules as fairly as possible: if any of the wolves make contact first, Mark loses.  All Mark has to do to win is hit each of them with his Nerf gun.  On the opposing team, they just have to grab his _sleeve_.  It’s as fair as Team Edge games get, but Mark is very conscious of the loudness of Bryan's “I’m out.  I’m out” exclamations.  They're drawing attention.

 

The damage is probably unintentional, but dammit if Mark doesn’t hear the footsteps closing in.

 

He has the long-range advantage, but if they rush him, it’s game over.  He wonders why they haven’t tried yet.  In the paranoia of darkness and silence, he thinks they’re about to.  He fires blindly, three shots – it’s all blind, really, but he doesn’t even know what he’s shooting at when he pulls the trigger – and hears Matthias whine, “ _Dang_ -it.”

 

They’re family-friendly, Mark muses, moving as quickly as he dares away from the takedown site.  Now _everyone_ knows he’s still on the ground level, but it doesn’t matter.  At least two other wolves are upstairs, but there’s an odd-ball that remains unaccounted for, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

 

The last time they played a game like this, there were two people on each level.  With five targets, one level is stacked.  He doesn’t dare proceed until he’s ruled out the possibility that the wild card isn’t hiding on the first level, prowling closer to him even now.  His hand aches with how tightly he grips the Nerf gun.

 

He wonders how jerky his movements look to the Go Pro as he silently walks the length of the room, shoulder to the wall, listening intently.  When he doesn’t hear anyone in pursuit, he dares to retreat, resting a hand on the banister of the stairs.

 

Instantly, he knows there’s trouble ahead.  He points the gun at the blank space leading upward and, in the half-second before doubt kicks into certainty, he fires.

 

He doesn’t even wait for it to miss – he _knows_ it misses – before falling back.  Someone scrambles down the remaining steps while he flees towards safety, dashing away.  He can’t fire again without pausing – Goddamn one-arm problem – so he forces himself to turn and fight.  He punches off a shot as a wolf’s hand clasps his shoulder.

 

It’s almost too close to call, but when Tyler freely concedes, “You got me,” Mark hears the genuine respect.  He’s not throwing in the towel; he felt the contact before he made it.

 

Shaking, Mark nods even though Tyler can’t see it, adrenaline coursing through his veins.  God, he _loves_ these kinds of games.  He hopes his Nerf gun isn’t rattling as loudly as it seems to be in his own ears as Tyler lets him go.  He moves confidently up the stairs, knowing that they won’t be guarded, but he slows at the second-to-last step and listens again.  His heart is pounding, distracting him.  He can’t _hear_ Ethan or J-Fred, but they’re hiding somewhere close.

 

He halts, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. In between breaths, he realizes that someone else is breathing very close to him.  He nearly falls down the stairs in his haste to drop back as a hand surges towards him, the breeze of its motion signaling just how close the call is. 

 

J-Fred’s disappointed grunt is barely audible, but Mark still hears it.  Sinking low on the fourth step from the top, he puts himself out of reach.  Regrouping, he fires a shot optimistically at the top of the steps, but J-Fred has already retreated to safe ground.

 

In a way, Mark thinks, checking the gun to make sure it’s loaded, the whole game is an honor system, because he can’t tell if his shots make contact.  To be fair, they’ve got the Go Pro footage, and it would rat out any liars as soon as they played the footage back.  No matter how hard Team Edge loves to play, they’re still a group of professional goofballs.  They won’t cheat to win.

 

Creeping upward, almost slithering on his belly, Mark pops the gun up on the top step, pointing it straight into the darkness.  He hears movement nearby, shuffling, and tilts the gun in their direction.  But he can’t fire like this.  The unforeseen difficulty almost pulls a frustrated grunt from his chest, but he recoups silently, shuffling up the step and planting the gun on his shoulder.

 

Someone is very close, maybe right in front of him, but he can’t pinpoint their direction.  If he fires straight ahead, he risks failure and sacrificing one of his four remaining shots.  The odds are still good that he’ll be able to knock them out in three, but if he drops below two shots, it’s game over.

 

He inches forward, still holding steady on the second-to-last step, and listens.

 

He hears movement to his left, retreating.  Cocking the gun, he fires.

 

It’s a blank, and he scrambles back, cuffing himself hard on the gun in the process.  He knows he’ll have a _hell_ of a bruise in the morning, but he doesn’t stop, half-scrambling, half-sliding down the steps as J-Fred surges forward.  Another miss.  Mark's right shoulder aches, but he sits up slowly, prying himself off the Nerf gun.  “Ow,” he allows aloud, soft in the near-perfect silence.

 

It’s not easy cocking the gun one-handed.  He resents gung-ho Mark insisting before the game started that he could figure it out.  At least he doesn’t have to worry about either of them coming after him on the stairs, he comforts himself.  That’s part of the rules – they have to stay on their chosen level, or they forfeit.  Otherwise, it’d be a slaughter.

 

It takes a minute or more to set up the gun again, but at last, he has what he needs.  He can’t test a shot now, but he’s reasonably sure the gun will fire again as he drags himself to his feet.  He's been at this for five minutes – maybe closer to ten – and it's time to end it.  Like a goddamn boss.

 

Pointing the gun in front of him, he surges up the last three steps and fires.  J-Fred lunges backward, his retreat audible, but just as assuredly Mark hears him make a surprised sound as the dart hits home.  Contact.  _Nailed it_.  “I’m out,” J-Fred announces, stepping back to allow Mark to proceed past him.  Mark doesn't say anything.  He can't.  Not yet.

 

 _Come out, come out, wherever you are_.  Ethan knows where he is.  He doesn’t know where Ethan is.  But he has the gun, and the chutzpah, to see this through.

 

Ethan doesn’t lunge for him, doesn’t make any sudden movements, but as Mark moves deeper into the room, he feels Ethan closing in.  They’ll meet in the middle.  He has two shots left.  One, really: there’s no way he’ll be able to fire a second one before Ethan tags him.

 

It’s all about where he aims, and how fast he fires.  This is it.

 

Mark plants his feet, holding steady with his back to the stairs, gun pointed into the abyss.  He thinks about the Go Pro footage, wondering what the all-seeing green eye will show him later.

 

Without thinking, he pulls the trigger. 

 

It’s probably an accident, a misstep of fortune, that it makes contact. 

 

But it does, and Ethan lets out a laugh that makes Mark’s pounding heart slow down.  Mark feels a weak, relieved chuckle bubble up in his chest, setting the gun on the floor and reaching out to blindly clasp Ethan’s shoulder, giving it a friendly shake.  “Good game,” he says sincerely.

 

Ethan fishes blindly for his hand and shakes it.  “Good game,” he echoes with dry sincerity.

 

“Do we have a winner?” Matt calls up the stairs, and Mark sees Matt’s phone out, illuminating the room in brilliant white-blue light.

 

In response, Ethan takes Mark’s wrist and thrusts it over their heads.  “First round goes to Markiplier,” he announces.

 

“Fucking knew it,” Tyler adds amiably, and Mark knows they’ll have to bleep the swear word out later but doesn’t care, grinning lazily.  Oh, he’s sore, and they still have _five_ more rounds to play – he volunteered to go first because he loves being the first penguin in the water – but he’s happy, too.

 

At least it’s easy being a wolf.  Sure, there’s the absent fear of being shot down, game-over, but he loves prowling around, sneaking up behind unsubtle hunters and tagging them.  It probably says something about him that he has more fun hunting from the other side of the fence than he does inching along in the protagonist’s shoes. 

 

In the end, he takes down J-Fred and Bryan, Matt gets Tyler, and Ethan runs out of shots.  Matt alone joins Mark on the winner’s pedestal.

 

It’s only the second challenge of the day; they'll tackle two more before the sun sets.

 

After they've finished filming, they hang out at Matt’s place, piling into a tiny gaming room with just a big TV, a coffee table, and a couch on the opposite wall.  It’s comfortable: Bryan lounges on the opposite arm of the couch while Ethan and Tyler sit next to Mark on the cushions.  J-Fred is stretched out on the floor in front of them, competing with Tyler, Ethan, and Bryan for the crown in Mario Kart. 

 

Too wedged to get leverage to play and still sore from the challenges, Mark spectates, picking off mini M&Ms from a bowl.  Matt pops in and out of the room, phone on and up, checking in with his online followers, radiating companionable warmth.  Matt _loves_ vlogging, in a way that Mark knows must be ingrained in his DNA.  It’s deeply rewarding for him.

 

For his part, Mark loves shitposting; vlogging somewhat eludes him, despite his propensity for Let’s Plays and even longer skits.  The whole process takes a lot out of him.  He has to plan and execute everything, spending hours in advance working out even simple sketches or confessing late-night thank-yous on the fly.  He enjoys them, but it would probably literally kill him if he tried to do what Matt did, running three-plus YouTube accounts.

 

Resting his cast on the arm of the couch, Mark flashes a peace sign Matt’s way when he says, “Say hi, guys." 

 

Sinking deeper into the cushions, Mark kicks back, relaxes, and marvels at the simple insanity that is his life.


	4. The World's Most Resourceful Masochist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *shakes box of Scooby Snacks* Y'all want some more "Parkour"? 'Course you do! Enjoy.

“Hiccups are proof that God exists and fu—cking hates us.”

 

Mark thumps his chest, leaning back in his gaming chair and groaning.  “I don’— _need_ this,” he says empathically.  “I have done nuh—thing wrong.  I am an innoc—'nt party.  Please end my suf—fring.”  Sitting forward, he plants his arms on the table and rests his forehead against the cast.  “BRB,” he tells the camera.  Swatting at the camera, he stops the recording, returning his head to its former pillowed position.  Another hiccup catches in his chest.

 

Staying hunched over, as unmoving as a snail, he waits for the hiccups to pass, shoulders jumping a little with each one.  _I just.  Want.  To record.  Stuff._

 

A brilliant and stupid idea occurs to him.  Gearing up, he pushes off the desk, flicks on the record button, and beams at the camera.  “Hel—lo, everybody, my name is Markiplier, and welcome to another _Im—possible Let’s Pl—Play!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“You’re either the most resourceful or masochistic person I’ve ever met,” Amy greets, sliding onto the couch near him, one arm resting on an oversized pink mustache plush.

 

“I can’t be both?” Mark teases, lying flat on the floor, using his folded arms as a pillow.  His hair is wild, but he doesn’t care.  He’s done recording for the day.  He got five – _five!_ – videos done in nine hours.  He’s a miracle.  He’ll have to edit them later, and he’ll get to hate himself for it, but he was productive as fuck.  It doesn’t matter that it’s eight PM and he hasn’t eaten dinner – or lunch.  He is a _beast_.  He deserves an award.  Or a nap.  He’ll take the nap, please.

 

“Mm.”  Amy rests her socked feet on his back.  “What’re you doing?”

 

“Being a footrest.  I thought that was obvious.”

 

Amy digs her heels into his shoulders, kneading a little.  “Nerd.”

 

Deliciously comfortable, Mark hums in agreement.  After a beat, she lifts her feet, and he whines.  “No, hey, that was nice.”

 

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

  
“I wasn’t gonna sleep on the floor.”  She doesn’t move.  He pouts.  “The floor is a perfectly viable surface to sleep on.”

 

“Vee-able?” Amy repeats, sounding amused, setting her heels on the middle of his back.  “Vy-able.”

 

“You know what I meant,” Mark mumbles to his forearms.  “Don’t judge me.  I’m no lemming.”

 

“That is exactly what Ethan said when you told him you were gonna make a ‘Try Not to Laugh’ playlist,” Amy teases.

 

Groaning, Mark rolls over, draping his right arm over his face, covering his eyes.  “Critical hit,” he moans.  “My ego … is slain.”  He goes limp, and only breaks his cover when she pokes him in the side, startling a giggle out of him.  “Hey now.”  She repeats it, and he rolls out of reach, repeating, “ _Hey_ now.”

 

“This is what dreams are made of,” Amy finishes, sliding off the couch so she can sit with her back to it.  She rakes her hand lightly down his back, and he groans deeply, so fucking happy he could die right here.  It only gets better when, tail thwapping, Chica emerges from her corner, ambling over and planting her paws on Mark’s shoulders.  “Hey, sweetie,” Amy coos, rubbing Chica’s head affectionately, ruffling the fur quickly.  “How’s my favorite puppy?”

 

Apparently comfy: she lies across his back, and Mark says, “Um.  Chica-bica.”

 

“What a good girl,” Amy praises, getting up with a final pat on Chica’s head, ambling away from them.

 

“Chica-bica,” Mark repeats, because he is a strong manly man, capable of lifting Tyler off the ground, but there is an eighty-pound animal draped across his shoulders, and his left arm is virtually useless.  It’s not exactly prime push-up position.  “Can I—”  He starts to lift himself up, but Chica just thwaps her tail on the floor contentedly, oblivious to his plight, and he sighs, lowering himself back down.  “This is fine, too.”

 

He doesn’t really mind.  He’s just bone-tired, and lying on the floor isn’t the most comfortable, but getting up means _moving_ and he has done his job for the day.

 

He must doze off at some point, because he wakes up when the door shuts, Amy brandishing a plastic bag full of something that smells _amazing_.  Prying himself off the floor with a deep groan, he says, “Amy.  Amy, I’m so old.”  Chica is gone, but she trots back out to greet Amy in the kitchen.  Stretching stiffly, Mark grunts, “Amy, I’m dying.”

 

“Would sushi make you feel better?” she asks casually.

 

Groaning again, he staggers over to her and says, “Amy, I love you.  Hard.”

 

She pinches his side lightly, says, “I love you harder” and he snorts a laugh, which makes him feel better, because goddamn, he really is the luckiest idiot there is.

 

* * *

 

Midday Markiplier is productive, well-hydrated, bouncy, and prone to saying the words “Sahhh, dude” in professional environments.

 

Midnight Markiplier is _tired_.  He’s fucking tired.  He’s been waking up at five thirty to record videos for a week, and the glaring blue eye of God is telling him that it’s 12:23 AM, which means at best he can hope for a “please don’t speak to me unless I am on my tenth shot of espresso” kind of day.  Not the most auspicious start.  And here he had been trying to _not_ screw over morning Mark.

 

To make matters worse, he has the hiccups.  Again.  Yes, again.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s so ridiculous that he Googled it, looking for answers.  Apparently, it’s not a sign of imminent death – unless he happens to concurrently sing in the rain on a golf course in Florida in the middle of a thunderstorm.  Preferably wielding a golf club.  Because, you know: Markimoo is short and needs to compensate for it.

 

Okay, he _was_ short – when he started his channel, he was a baby, mentally if not physically two inches shorter.  He was a twenty-three-year-old baby, and he was so _little_ compared to all his buddies.  (His “buddies.”  Ron Swanson had it right: they were work-proximity associates.  They were his engineering school pals, because his childhood friends were pursuing their own paths, putting them out of reach.  Theirs was a kinship that didn’t last long, once he dropped the engineering thing.)  Then he grew up into the YouTube scene, reconnected with his actual friends, and found that all his buddies were still much bigger than him.

 

He was falling well beneath the “you must be six feet to enter” club, so he incorporated his shortcomings into the act.  Five-ten was a respectable score, taller than the average American man, but it looked short on camera.  He liked putting a strong foot forward, and it was much easier to roll with the “I’m a really small guy” gag while standing at a man-pride soothing height of five-ten than it was to chase an unattainable swimsuit model standard and pretend he wasn’t small next to his bros.

 

Besides, Ethan was shorter than him, so, he wasn’t the shortest guy in the room. 

 

(Ethan was also, what, six years younger?  Seven?  He rubs his eyes.  He’s corrupting the youth.)

 

Yawning loudly, he pulls up a different video, flicking through the footage.  Over.  And over.  And over again.  Even his most dedicated fans could never approach the level of obsessive consumption that Mark had to do to keep his channel alive.  He truly was his own biggest fan, by sheer necessity.

 

He did the “Top 10 Things Markiplier Does When Not Doing Let’s Plays” video to entertain the masses and fill space, but it wasn’t entirely untruthful.  Exaggerated, sure, but he had easily spent thousands of hours pouring over his own videos, making sure everything was perfect.  

 

It was an endless process.  Adjusting his little box.  Adding graphics, adding effects, adding _pizzazz_.  Inserting links and outro clips.  Adjusting the audio, smoothing out rough patches, enhancing quiet moments.  Putting in fun music and removing copyrighted tunes.  Cutting, condensing, consolidating clips endlessly.  Trashing skits wholesale, storing them in a growing folder of drafts for future use.  Doing everything he could to make it as family-friendly as possible while still remaining true to himself.

 

Rarely – very, very rarely – he could get away with an uncut clip.  Those were his favorites.  But even they weren’t easy – it was a nail-biting, exhaustive effort to watch through the entire video, checking obsessively for any content that might get him in trouble.

 

He really needed a robotic sidekick that didn’t need ten shots of espresso to survive the morning-after a hardcore editing session.

 

Watching the same ten seconds over and over and over, he finally concedes defeat, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes with his right hand.  Ohhhhh boy.  He can feel a murderous headache coming on and knows he should slink off to bed, steal whatever sleep he can, but he’s so tired sleep no longer appeals to him.  He just leans back in his chair and holds a hand to his eyes, embracing a moment of meditative stillness.

 

A hiccup makes his shoulders jump, shattering his calm.  Lowering his hand, he closes out of the editing program.  He can always film an ice bath challenge and throw that up.  He’d have to spruce it up somehow, because he’d somehow turned the excruciating sport into something mundane on his channel.  His tired brain offers no answers, and he doesn’t press it.

 

He’ll think of something in the morning.  It’s the chant that follows him home, that carries him to bed, sheets turned down and cold, just the way he likes it.  He slinks underneath the covers, lights already off, eyelids heavy.  God.  He loves being horizontal.  He should really start filming Let’s Plays in bed, just – with his eyes closed, and no controller, and quiet.  That would be nice.

 

Wrapping himself in the blankets, he exhales deeply, drifting off to the tune of how nice it would be to sleep for a few years.

 

* * *

 

Oversleeping his alarm is not a new phenomenon to Mark, but it’s an increasingly rare gaffe.

 

Still, he knows the minute he opens his eyes that he’s fucked up, and when he looks at his phone and sees 10:37 AM on the screen, he nearly throws himself out of bed.  He sprints through his morning routine, skidding into the office by noon.

 

“You’re late,” Tyler greets from the couch, but he sounds cheerful.  Mark is caught up apologizing, sorry-sorry-sorry, but Ethan just stops him by taking him by the shoulders and steering him over to the computers.

 

Staring at the screen in front of him, Mark ogles five shiny new videos.  Fully six hours of footage has been wrangled into submission, ready for publication.  He has no idea _how_ they did it, but he almost doesn’t care.  Kat is away, but he knows that she had a part in it; Tyler confirms it, chiming in, “Kat did most of the work.”

 

“I sincerely,” he rasps, voice deep with sleep, with gratitude, with relief, “honestly, love you.”

 

“If you die, you take most of my subscribers with you,” Ethan reminds teasingly, releasing him and taking a seat next to Tyler.  “Helping you is a selfish move.”

 

“Very selfish,” Tyler agrees dryly.

 

Mark takes a seat at the desk, looking over the clips in wonder.  They’re beautiful.  They’re perfect.  They’re ready to be uploaded.  A full week of footage, done.

 

No ice bath required.  He closes his eyes, feeling a mixture of relief and admiration, dangerously close to tears.  God, he loves his friends.  They’re the best work-proximity associates he’s ever had.

 

* * *

 

…Three hours later, he’s still hah-hah- _hahhhing_ his way into an ice tub because he’s a glutton for punishment and he lost a bet with Tyler.

 

Belly deep in ice water, he can’t even remember _what_ the bet was, but he has more pressing concerns on his mind, face screwed up as he tries to keep his screams from reaching full volume.  The neighbors already know he’s noisy, but he’d rather not have them call the police.  “AWWHHH, IT’S SO COLD,” he howls in his indoor voice.  It’s like screaming into a pillow without the pillow: he’s gotten very good at screaming quietly, because, well, not every room has soundproof walls, and he has strong reactions.

 

“Don’t get the cast wet,” Tyler advises, holding the camera above him.  They put his arm in a plastic garbage bag and tied it off to be safe.  “This was not a good idea.”

 

“IT’S _SO.  COLD._ ”

 

Tyler just laughs.  Mark flips him off, twisting in the tub.

 

Then he lowers his toes into the water and yells in his outdoor voice.

 

Just another day at Markiplier HQ.


	5. Life Between the Takes

“What is up my CRANKY crew?  It’s ya boy, CrankGamePlays—”

 

“ _That’s not my intro_ —”

 

Giggling, Mark adds, “Joined by the one and only Lord Minion 777!  Say hi, Alvin.”

 

Ethan grabs the back of Mark’s shirt to keep him from ducking out of reach and tries to grab his phone, but Mark keeps it at arm's length.  “You’re the _worst_ ,” Ethan groans.

 

“And what are we up to on this beautiful Monday morning, you might ask?” Mark continues cheerfully, squawking when Ethan tickles him.  “Rude, RUDE, I’m talking to your fans.  Okay, so – Alvin, stop it—”  Laughing, Mark pitches his phone onto the mat and full-body _tackles_ Ethan into the foam pit, making him screech.

 

“Fay-TA-li-tee,” Mark growls triumphantly, lying on his back with both arms in the air, barely visible under the foam cubes.  Dual filming – a time honored tradition in the Iplier orbit – Kathryn steps up to the edge of the pit, camera pointed at them.  Mark flashes her a peace sign without moving, grinning.  “’Sup – OW.”  He curls inward when Ethan plants a hand firmly on his belly, using it to push himself up, putting a little too much pressure a _lot_ too close to his dick.  Unfolding, he adds breathlessly, “Geez, hands to yourself – okay, so, we’re just here because there’s a power outage at our place!  Yay!”

 

“Yay,” Ethan repeats, hauling himself slowly out of the pit like a seal, belly-down.  “Rose, Rose, help me,” he implores Kat, hand outstretched.

 

Flipping around – no mean feat in the blocks of foam with a cast on his left arm – Mark snags Ethan’s left ankle and hauls him backward one-handed.  “Nooooo,” Ethan says, digging his hands in, resisting Mark’s efforts.  “Jaaack, let go.”

 

Mark plants his feet on the wall next to him and tugs _hard_.  “Welcome to a live action version of _Tug the Table!_ ” he grunts, hooking his arm around Ethan’s calf for better leverage.  “Place your bets now, kids!”  Then, amused, he adds, “Dude, if your pants come off, I’m gonna have to age-restrict this.”

 

“Please do _not_ ,” Ethan says fervently, kicking in his grip – not hard enough to break anything, but paddling decisively, greatly exacerbating Mark’s efforts.  “You’re literally the woor—ohmyGodMark _stop_.”  Laughing, he has to sacrifice his hold on the wall to grab his own belt as Mark’s energetic tugging almost yank his pants down.  “That’s cheating.”

 

“’Scuse you,” Mark says, fully focused on his prize, now, dragging Ethan back into the pit.  “’m the guy with the cast on, it’s only fair.”  Ethan finally gets his head in the game and holds onto the edge for dear life, but Mark is in it to win it, and with one last mighty _oomph_ , he pries Ethan off the edge.  “Boom, biii—bitty friend o’mine,” he course-corrects, because he can’t just let his mouth run at a gym.  “Don’ know why I’m Irish now.”

 

“It’s because Septiplier’s still alive,” Ethan gasps, high-pitched and breathy, and Mark dissolves into giggles, because oh _God_ , he loves that sketch.

 

“Thought we – SETTLED that – like MEN,” he grunts, forcefully yanking Ethan back into the pit.  “Dude, you’re so – _wiry_ –”

 

“I really don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or—”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“Okie dokie then.”  Ethan snorts a laugh, warning loudly, “Pants coming off, pants coming off!”  Mark loosens his grip accordingly – he’s not a _total_ dick – but before Ethan can fully recover, Kat chimes in.

 

“Hashtag sexy Ethan.”

 

Mark and Ethan bray with laughter, losing the thread of the competition entirely.

 

* * *

 

“Jaaaack.”

 

“Maeeerk.”

 

“Ja…aeeerk.”

 

“Just sounds like yeh’re really drunk and tryin’ to say ‘jerk,’” Jack teases.  “Fuck are you callin’ me fer at … God fuckin’ knows what fuckin’ time it is.  Too fuckin’ late.”

 

“My video isn’t uploadinggggg.”

 

“Aww.  So fuckin’ sad, mate.  You should write a song.”

  
“Myyy Innnn-ter-net connect-ion is a dick,” Mark croons, making him laugh, deep and full.  “Yes, my IN-ter-net connec-tion is a dick!  It’s leg-end-ary how … fuckin’ … lame – my IN-TER-NET CON-NEC-TIIIIION IS!”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’m literally speechless right now.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

“Marko?”

 

“Polo?”

 

“It’s fuckin’ four AM.  I was actually asleep.”

 

Mark glances at the time.  _His_ clock says it’s only eight PM, which means – oh.  Whoops.  “The fuck did you pick up for?” he asks jovially.

 

“’Cause it’s you, and y’know how often you end up in the hospital?  You make it hard for a poor Irish boy to sleep at night.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Mark says, half-seriously, half-teasingly.  “Hey, uh, speaking of hospitals, you haven’t signed my cast yet.”  He brandishes it accordingly, setting his arm on the table with an audible _thunk_.  “Space is at a premium right now because we’re filming a challenge tomorrow to decorate it.  Better jump in while it’s still a good deal.”

 

“Maerk.  You live in America.  I live in Ireland.”

 

“That was a thrilling geography lesson.  But!”  Digging around, he disappears from the FaceTime frame as he lunges under his desk, clonking his head on it on the way back up and swearing loudly.  Popping back up like a weasel on attempt number two, he brandishes a silver Sharpie, enticing, “I have _nine_ different colored Sharpies to choose from.”

 

Jack yawns, putting on his ‘I’m so impressed’ look and resting his chin on his hand.  “Ooh.  You make a handsome offer, Fischbach.”

 

“There’s silver.”  Waggling it, Mark sets the Sharpie down and retrieves the rest of the pack, ticking off, “Blue, green, purple, pink, black, yellow, white, and gold.”

 

“Yellow ‘n’ gold are the same fuckin’ thing, ya goof.”

 

“Not in the world of Sharpies,” Mark says seriously.

 

Jack hums.  “Pink won’t show up on a pink cast.”

 

“Not with that attitude.”

 

A little bark of a laugh.  “Just 3D-print my signature or somethin’.”

 

“That’s no fun.”

 

“Too bad.  I’m going back to bed.”

 

“Jaaaaack—”

 

“Take a day off.  You’ll work yerself ta death at your pace.”

 

“It’s not work if you’re having fun,” Mark points out cheerfully, tucking the markers back into the drawer.

 

“Yeah, it’s only work if you end up in the feckin’ hospital,” Jack agrees, flicking two fingers from his forehead in a lazy salute.  “Be good.”  He ends the call.

 

Mark pouts.  He’s _always_ good.

 

* * *

 

“Hullo, everybody, my name is Markimoo— _nope_.”

 

He buries his face in a hand, refusing to emerge from his shell even when Ethan nudges him.  “Go on, Markimoo,” Ethan encourages, elbowing him repeatedly.  “Do your intro.”

 

“Redo,” Mark insists.

 

“We don’t do _redos_ ,” Ethan scoffs.  “We provide brand-name, one-hundred-percent organic Mark Ip Lier content.”

 

Shaking with laughter next to him, Tyler doesn’t come to his defense.  Mark sinks deeper into his shell of shame, playing it up for the camera.  “Anyway, today we’re auctioning Ethan and Tyler off on eBay.  Opening bid: I will pay you five _thousand_ dollars to take them off my hands.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, fuckING _FUCK_.”

 

Mark nearly slams his keyboard off the table as his avatar dies zero-point-three seconds from the finish.  Steaming, he preoccupies his mouth draining an entire bottle of water, transforming ‘I wonder how well my noise-cancellation walls work’ into silent screaming.  It makes him feel a little better to crush the empty plastic and pitch it aside – he’ll handle it _later_ – before shoving out of his chair.

 

He finds Chica underfoot, tail wagging pleasantly, and he thinks about yelling into the wall for a bit – a therapeutic exercise deeply underutilized by society as a whole – before sinking to the floor and wrapping his arms carefully around her neck.  “You are literally everything to me,” he tells her, pounding heart gradually slowing down.

 

Pressing kisses to the side of her head, he insists, “You are the goodest girl in the whole world, and I love you.”

 

Chica’s tail whaps against him lightly, content.

 

* * *

 

Bob greets him with: “Can I draw a dick on it?”

 

Mark snorts coffee up his nose, which is _unpleasant_.  This is why you never drink and walk into Iplier HQ, he thinks.  “Yes, just don’t do it on the top,” he says, recovering and lifting his arm to indicate the underside.  “I can’t take it off in public.”

 

“Awesome.”

 

Space is kind of at a minimum – their three-hour livestream ate up fully ninety-five-percent of the real estate as they wrote down big-name donors – but Bob is a capable guy, and Mark is patient, holding up his arm for him.

 

“One of these days, you’re gonna like, fall off a cliff,” Bob muses, backing off and capping the marker.  “Just sayin’.”

 

Mark rolls his eyes, warns, “Don’t jinx me,” and plops onto his couch.  “We doin’ Happy Wheels or Turbo Dismount?”

 

“They update Turbo Dismount?”

 

“They did not.”

  
“Is it still funny?”

 

“Oh, hell yes.”

 

Bob grins and sits beside him.  “Let’s do this.”

                                                                      

Playing games with Bob is really one of the highlights of his month, Mark thinks, belly-laughing as Bob’s character does a full pirouette mid-air before being bazooka’d off-screen by an incoming truck.

 

* * *

 

The video opens in a dark room, curtains drawn over a doorway. 

 

Smoke dispensers ooze drama from the floor, adding tension to the scene.  The camera holds its position, unattended on its tripod.  For fully eight seconds, there is nothing but silence.

 

Then there’s a soft clicking noise in the distance, and upbeat disco music begins to filter across the room.  The instrumental lead builds slowly into a verse, the tune vaguely but not immediately recognizable.  It crescendos towards a chorus, and without warning, the curtains fly apart.

 

Bedecked in not one but two pairs of shuttered sunglasses, Markiplier struts into view, a pink feathery boa draped around his neck, a blue sports bra and pair of bright silver shorts completing the look.

 

They can’t put the chorus in for copyright reasons, but the title of the video gives it all away: “Check Out This Hot Stuff!”

 

Flexing the guns while facing the door, Mark makes sure his newly freed left arm is clearly in view, silently beaming.

 

Five weeks of good behavior later, he’s _free_ at last of the cast. 

 

It’s easily one of his favorite uploads, and it racks up a tidy six million views for the thumbnail.  God bless the insanity that is the Internet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bops off to the tune of Donna Summers' "Hot Stuff"*


	6. The Best Way to Say Sorry is Chocolate

“Yo, yo, it’s ya boy, Markimoo-four-twenty-blaze-it.  I am here to eat the world’s _hottest_ bar of chocolate because I don’t love myself and also IIIIII did not upload a video yesterday.  I’m sorry.”  Tapping a peace sign against his chest, he adds seriously, “I love you all.  Remember me fondly.”  Then he takes a fiendishly oversized bite of the bar and promptly sets his mouth on _fire_.

 

When Amy arrives in studio forty-five minutes later and asks why he’s still downing milk at a rate of two gulps per minute, eyes bloodshot and steam pouring out of his ears, he croaks, “I balled _sohh_ har’.”  Holding up the remains of the tiny chocolate bar, he explains, “Thith ih m’ hell.”

 

She looks him up and down once, about-faces, and returns twenty minutes later with a five-pound bag of ice and a bucket.  Without prompting, she pours the ice into the bucket and hands it to him; he stuffs his entire head into it with a groan that is half-tortured, half-relieved.  “Ohhhhhhhh my God, my fayth ith on _fyhre_.”  He chomps down on a mouthful of ice like a fucking shark, and still his entire human form _burns_.  Curling his arms around the bucket, he groans.

 

Scooting a chair up to his side, Amy rubs his shoulders with one hand.  “Are you gonna be okay?”  When he doesn’t answer, she slides her hand up to the back of his neck and scruffs it gently, the way he likes it.  “Don’t drown yourself.”

 

“I fuckin’ _haye_ Mahk-ee-moo-fou’-twhenty-blayy-it.”

 

He can almost hear Amy roll her eyes affectionately, but she resumes rubbing his back, which is nice.  He seriously loves her.  “You know eating superhot foods is reckless endangerment, right?” she muses.

 

“’s nah wyn _‘m_ th’ own-lee one ea’n them.”

 

“Was that English?”

 

Lifting his head from the bucket, dripping ice water and thoroughly disheveled, Mark affirms thickly, “ _Ah_.”

 

She switches from rubbing his back to cupping his face, framing it.  “Please don’t die.”

 

“’m nuh gunna.”

 

“Your face is _still_ hot,” she points out, thumbs against his cheeks, brushing melted ice from them.  “Is this normal?”

 

“ _Ah_.”

 

“Kinda feels like we should go to urgent care,” she says.  “Like, for real.”

 

“ _Nuh-ah._ ”

 

“ _Ah_ ,” Amy replies cheekily, leaning forward and kissing his forehead.  He closes his eyes, reaching up to hold her wrists, aching with affection.  His mouth hurts so bad, his throat is on fire, and he’s pretty sure his entire torso is just an ashen pile of organs, but it doesn’t matter.  He has Amy and forty-one million subscribers.

 

What more could a guy ask for?

 

“Pew-ee-pah ne’hr ea’s hawh foo’,” he muses.

 

She ruffles his hair.  “Literally none of those were real words.”  Leaning back in her chair, she adds, “Is the lisp back because your mouth hurts or because your tongue is swollen?”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Yup, we’re going to urgent care,” she says cheerfully, standing and hooking a hand in his sleeve.  When he doesn’t move, she warns, “I’ll drag you.”

 

Defiant and playful, he challenges, “Trah.”

 

Hooking a hand under each arm, she hauls him upward like she isn’t several inches shorter and considerably lighter than he is and drapes his arm around her shoulders.  “Come on, mister.”

 

“Lehme uplo’h th’ vid firth,” he insists, leaning back towards the computers.  “Blayy-i’ muh li’ on.”

 

“Mark.”

 

“Aim.”

 

Rolling her eyes, she hauls him away from the desk.  “Later.”

 

“Buh–”

 

“ _Later_.”

 

* * *

 

“H’lo, ev’ry buh-dy, mah name i’ Mark-ip-lier, ‘n’ mah whole mouff ith ah por’al t’ hell.  Don’ worry; ev’rythin’ ith fine.  ‘Cau’ Aim-ee is here!  Say hi, Aim-ee.”

 

Driving the van, Amy ignores him, but he sees her small smile, and it makes him smile.  Flashing a thumbs-up at the camera, he adds, “Ev’rythin’ is goo’.”  Then, giggling, he adds, “Lon’ liff tha goooooo.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Amy tells him, still smiling and keeping her gaze on the road.

 

“E-tan will understan’ my laff fah goo.”  Reaching up to rub his mouth with his free hand, he muses, “I s’srly can’ tahk.”

 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Amy replies dryly, flicking on the turn signal and rounding a corner.  “Is this your payback for me not letting you upload the vid first?”

 

“Nuh-uh, thith ith cau’ y’re pre-tty.”

 

“Nobody needs this,” she tells him, as he zooms in – “zooms in,” AKA moves the camera closer to her face until it’s less than three inches away.  “Nope.  No one needs this.”  When he refuses to move it, she takes one hand off the wheel to grab his camera wielding hand, flicking her thumb over the lens and bringing his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles once.  “Goob.”

 

She lets his hand go and he beams at her, flicking off the camera and setting the phone aside.  “Haff ah tol’ you how ha’hh ah luff y’ la’ely?”

 

“You’ve never said any of those words to me before,” she says dryly, gliding into a parking space and throwing the van into park.  “C’mon, goob.”

 

“’m th’ _behh_ goo’.”

 

Congenially, she permits, “Sure.”  Hopping out of the van, she rounds to his side, opening the door and half-encouraging, half- _hauling_ him out.  “Faster we get in, faster we get out,” she reminds.

 

“Y’re stho _stron’_ ,” he says, awed.  “’m th’ lucki’st fuchh in th’ univerth.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, and he finally cooperates because his mouth is _still_ burning, and maybe they have milk inside the urgent care.  Either way, he could really go for some milk.

 

* * *

 

“So.  What have we learned?” Amy asks, sitting at the counter while they wait for their lunch, folding a tiny paper crane with a napkin.

 

“Yuh really gud at that,” Mark replies, leaning his elbows on the counter and watching her lazily, sleepy-eyed and content.  Benadryl always makes him dopy, and they gave him the _good_ stuff at the urgent care.  Man, he wishes he had that on demand.  It’s nice to feel all stupid and fuzzy.

 

“We will not eat superhot foods to punish ourselves,” Amy corrects, finishing off the crane.

 

“We wi’ nah ea’ sup’a hat foods ta punish ourselves,” he repeats.  “Supah-HAT i’ mah fav’rit word in th’ English language.”

 

Sighing, she sets the paper crane on his palm, and he beams.  “Ith stho cute,” he coos.

 

She reaches up, pinches his cheek to say _you’re so cute_ , and sets her hand on top of his wrist.  “You seriously need a babysitter,” she tells him.

 

“Mark’moo-fou’-twenty-blaze-i’ canno’ be caged.”

 

She squeezes his wrist and insists, “You need a babysitter.”

 

“’m happy wiff juh’ you.”

 

“Mm.”  But she’s still smiling, and he considers it a win.

 

* * *

 

 _The Best Way to Say Sorry is Chocolate_ goes up just shy of five hours past its deadline, but Mark figures the belated nature of the thing is appropriate, given its message.

 

To sweeten the deal with his subscribers, he plays a few rounds of actual ping pong with Ethan and throws the video online just before midnight with the irresistibly minimalist title “…?”

 

Snugging up to a big, cool, comfy pillow, he falls asleep to the tune of his stupid, weird, wonderful life.


	7. A Breath of Fresh Irish Air

“I am the most tasteful bastard on Planet Earth.”

 

“S’a helluva an introduction,” Jack huffs, unfolding himself from his chair and slapping Mark on the back with the force of his hug.  “Cheers, mate; you’re only an hour and forty-two minutes late.”

 

Mark sighs, letting him go and rolling his carryon along to the tune of Jack’s places-to-be-things-to-do skip.  It’s pretty brisk on a good day, and Mark’s legs are still stiff from being stuffed in his seat all day.  And night.  Time is weird, and only weirder with the glaring blue sky shining through the windows.  “We sat on the tarmac for _ninety-two minutes._ ”

 

“Welcome ta Ireland,” Jack says dryly, grabbing the back of his shirt to keep him from plowing into a businessman rounding a corner at a slow gallop.  “So, Mr. Tasteful, how was your flight?” he asks, releasing him and resuming his breakneck pace.

 

“Long.”  Mark _does_ collide with Businessman Number Two, clocking in at a moderate gallop.  He starts to apologize profusely, but Jack takes a hold on his shirt again and hauls him along, cheerfully impatient, as per usual.  Mark may live a fast-paced life, but the breathtaking verve of Sean McLoughlin is something to behold.  “We trying to outrun an ambulance?” he teases, being towed along otherwise patiently.  Nothing beats leaving the logistics of an international trip to a friend, who also happens to be a native.

 

“No, but I’m hungry, because _some_ -body kept me waitin’ for an hour an’ forty-two minutes,” Jack snarks.  “Inconsiderate American bastard, s’what you are,” he adds, with no change in tone, but he’s still all smiley, so Mark knows he isn’t annoyed.

 

“ _I_ offered to fly the plane,” he adds lightly.

 

Jack snorts, step only breaking a little so he can level a flat, imperturbable look at Mark.  “You did not.”

 

“I _really_ wanted to,” Mark admits, “but I didn’t want to end up being detained for being a nut.”

 

“Thought yeh were king o’ the squirrels,” Jack points out.

 

“Har har.”  He yelps when he trips over his own feet and plunges towards the linoleum, spared a rather lovely black eye by Jack’s quick reflexes.  “Please pour caffeine directly into my bloodstream,” he instructs, pretending to swoon into Jack’s arms.

 

“Get off ‘a me, ya goof.”  Pushing him upright, Jack adds, “You can’t just leave me hangin’.  Why’re you so tasteful now, anyway?”

 

In response, Mark says giddily, “I’ll show you at the hotel.”

 

Jack groans, half-leading, half-dragging him across the terminal.  “Oh, God, it’s bad, isn’t it?”

 

In response, Mark mimes zipping his lips shut, and beams.

 

* * *

 

It’s _so_ bad, and Mark loves absolutely everything about it. 

 

Seated at the table beside him, Jack has tears in his eyes.  “Please,” he wheezes, “please tell me this is not a joke.”

 

“This is not a joke,” Mark assures, grinning, flipping through the digital archive of “Markiplier’s Nude Reenactments of Famous Paintings” folder.  “I’m saving up for 30K.”  Then, amending, he adds, “30 … M?  Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”  Throwing in a deep and rather lofty British accent, he simpers, “Winston, bring me my computer so that I might admire the 21.958312 M subscribers I have, hu-hum.”

 

“Your accents are impeccable,” Jack says dryly, laughing when he clicks on the photo entitled “Starry Night.”  “Where the fuck are ya?” he asks, leaning in close to the screen.  The picture is a big swath of pitch-black desert at night, the sole illumination the galaxy overhead.  To the undiscerning eye, it appears a beautiful landscape shot, devoid of all human life.

 

But Mark knows better.  His pictorial doppelganger is hiding in the distant righthand corner of the frame, a completely dark shadow – decidedly but not entirely naked; there are the outlines of boots on his feet because he’s not about to tromp around California’s black box of snakes and scorpions without wearing some sort of protective footwear – thrusting both arms victoriously into the air.  To complete the look, he’s flipping the bird with both hands.

 

“Now _that_ is tasteful,” Jack says, giggling again.  “You’re really thinking ahead,” he adds thoughtfully, biting down on another Tayto chip, a bag open between them.

 

“How so?”

 

“Anticipatin’ thirty mil this early in the game.”

 

Cheekily, Mark adds around a chip, “I mean, I _am_ two-thirds of the way there.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes and steals the bag again.  “S’only ‘cause Chica’s the cutest.”

 

“That is completely true.”

 

Jack laughs at “Nude Descending a Staircase.”  “That’s _really_ original,” he adds, poking the strategically positioned railing covering his junk.  “Surprised you didn’ fall down it.”

 

“I almost did ‘cause my feet were kinda sweaty,” Mark admits, crunching on a chip.

 

Jack scrunches up his nose.  “Really needed _that_ mental picture in my life,” he grunts, and then he bursts out laughing when he flicks over to the next image, which is Mark descending a staircase in the aforementioned manner, feet cartoonishly flung outward as he falls.  “You should use this one for the cover.”

 

“God, I wish.  But my dick’s in it and photoshop is a bitch,” Mark says mournfully.

 

“Just do full nudes, then,” Jack prompts, rolling his eyes.  “Get with the fuckin’ program.”

 

“If the program is to get banned from YouTube—”

 

“You’re not selling them _on your channel_ ,” Jack corrects, laughing.  “Can you even imagine?”  Clearing his throat – Mark braces anticipatorily, because he already knows what’s coming – Jack says in a gravelly interpretation of his voice, “Hello, everybody, my name is Mark-a-plier, and today I’m here to post my entire PornHub catalogue!  Here ya go, kiddies!”

 

Scrunching up his nose, Mark grumbles, “I don’t call them _kiddies_.”

 

“’Course you do, you’re an American,” Jack dismisses with a wave of his hand.  He steals the chip Mark was going for without even looking at the bag, adding lightly, “So, this is why you flew all the way out to Ireland?  Ta show me yer dick pics?”

 

“No,” Mark says obstinately.  “I flew out here because my brain is stuck and Irish air is cleansing.”

 

Jack gets up and returns with two fresh Coke bottles, cracking his open and clinking it against Mark’s.  “I’ll fuckin’ cheer to that.  Just strips the outer three layers of your skin when the wind blows.”  Chugging a third of his bottle in one gulp, he thumps his chest once in satisfaction, musing, “Coke almost doesn’t need rum, it’s so bubbly.”  Eyeing Mark thoughtfully, he asks, “How hard is that alcohol ban?”

 

“Hard,” Mark admits with a rueful little smile.  “I don’t have my meds on me, so our first sightseeing stop would be the inside of an Irish emergency room if we tried it.”

 

“No, our first sightseeing stop would be the bar; our _second_ stop would be the ER,” Jack corrects, snagging another chip.  Mark rolls his eyes, elbows him, and Jack allows, “What kinda meds?”

 

Mark waves a hand vaguely.  “The good kind.  Y’know how some people are lactose intolerant?”  Jack nods.  “Same idea.  I can’t process alcohol because I don’t make the right enzyme.  It’s toxic.  My meds can mimic the enzyme, but it only … kinda works?  It’s not the greatest.  It’s more like, a ceremonial thing.  A thimbleful of alcohol here and there won’t kill me, but drunk Minecraft is permanently retired.”  He exhales, and doesn’t mean for it to sound sad, but it must, because Jack tilts the chip bag towards him.

 

“Don’ worry, I can drink plenty fer the both’a us,” he assures teasingly.

 

Mark snorts and takes a chip, chewing thoughtfully for a long moment.  “I’m really, genuinely excited to be here,” he admits, needing to say it out loud, because he has been in a creative _funk_ lately, struggling in the absence of “the gang’s all here!” challenges to keep churning out good content.  He’s been in the YouTube business for the better part of ten years.  So much has changed, and yet the repetition of it – Let’s Play after Let’s Play after Let’s Play – sometimes merits these “I need to run away for a bit” sojourns.

 

He’s lucky: he can indulge in his wanderlust when it strikes.  It does make him feel a little guilty, abandoning his platform, even though none of his fans will be any the wiser.  The ghost of Markiplier uploads faithfully at 11 AM every day.  Mark himself checked it at the airport before his flight launched to make sure everything was squared off.

 

His queue is ready to go for twelve days; three weeks of backbreaking work for a single week off is the kind of relentless work ethic Team Iplier embraces.  Mark is the man at the helm, the driving force.  He’s the guy insisting that they do _one_ more take, that they take the time to go the extra mile, that they not let a day slide because they’re tired or sick or out of ideas.  This is what they do.  This is their _lives_.

 

So, even though he’s spent most of his life away from the famous YouTube circuit, it’s still a little strange to drop off the map.  He feels vaguely anxious, like he needs to be working on a video, like he _didn’t_ upload one today, even though a quick glance at his phone affirms that the ghost of Markiplier is indeed cheerfully babbling to an audience of at least seven hundred thousand viewers.  Now, his channel is so self-contained that no one would file a missing person report for another thirteen days; the ghost of Markiplier will cover his tracks, no matter how deep in the woods he ventures.

 

He tries to breathe deeply and finds his chest constricted, clearing his throat to cover it up.  “It’s good to have yeh here,” Jack admits freely.  “Besides,” he adds, shoving back from his chair and disappearing for a moment to rummage through his bag, “I was promised premium advertisement space.”  Mark blinks, uncomprehending, until he pulls out a silver Sharpie and grins.

 

It makes him laugh, relieving some of the tension.  He shoves back the sleeve of his flannel and undershirt, giving Jack room to sign his name on Mark’s unadorned left arm.  It tickles a little, and he knows the fans will have an absolute fit if they ever see it, but he likes how _Jack_ it is.  “That’s not gonna wash off,” he points out, rolling his sleeve back down carefully.

 

Jack grins.  “Good thing yeh already did yer next nude calendar,” he points out.

 

Whatever lingering unease Mark feels about abandoning YouTube vanishes with his belly laugh, so goddamn _relieved_ that Jack agreed to this visit.

 

It only occurs to Mark midway through the evening when he is punch-drunk tired and listening to Jack and Signe explain something at a tiny little table in an unpronounceable restaurant’s name that _Jack_ had to put in a lot of effort to make this visit happen.  They’re both tied into the web, and it isn’t easy to get ahead of the game.  Jack must’ve backlogged a lot of videos, too, pouring in hours of effort to give up a few for Mark.

 

It makes Mark happy, knowing that he gets to live in this world of finding time in unexpected places, borrowing from the future to make the present awesome.


	8. The Newly Elected Pewds Tours Ireland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pops out of a hat* Bonjour! I'm back. Thanks again for the kudos, comments, etc.

“Guess which sorry sonuvabitch decided to come visit?” Jack asks the camera, grinning and panning his phone around the hotel room.  “I’ll give you a hint: his name starts with ‘jack’ and ends with ‘ass.’”

 

“That was oddly sexual,” Mark says dryly offscreen.  Jack whips the camera around: Mark vaults from his starfish sprawl on his bed onto the floor, landing with a yelp.  “Ow,” he giggles, lying flat on his back.  Jack appears on the bed, phone pointed at him.  Mark covers his face with a peace sign, hair floofier than usual, post-shower.

 

“Look, everybody!  It’s PEWWW-die-pie!” Jack announces, voice hitting a register Mark can only admire.

 

Sitting up on the floor, Mark puts a hand over his heart and begins solemnly, “As my first act as the newly-elected Pewds—”

 

He _bolts_.  Sprinting across the suite, faster than even Jack’s quick rebound with the camera, Mark throws open the door and flings himself outside it, flying down the hall, Jack’s laughter reaching him before the hotel room door clicks shut.  It isn’t long before he hears Jack in silent, hot pursuit, scrambling for cover in the stairwell.  “We won’t let him get away!” Jack promises their future audience.  Mark launches himself down the last four steps to the lower level, landing on the platform below with barely a wobble.

 

“Catch me if you can!” he dares cheekily.  Then he trips over his own shoelace and plows face-first into the concrete wall, momentarily stunning himself.

 

“Oh, shite,” Jack narrates helpfully, clambering down the final steps.  “Y’okay?”  He puts a worried hand on Mark’s shoulder.  Nose throbbing – painful, but not broken – Mark flashes a thumbs-up.

 

Then he spins, snatches the phone from Jack’s limp hand, and sprints down another level, patter-patter-patter-PATTER.  Giggling uncontrollably, he shoves Jack’s phone in his pocket, Jack’s hawking at his back assuring him that he’s not getting away with it.  “Yeh loon, get _back_ here!”

 

He could end the chase at the bottom of the stairwell, but who _ever_ gave up a race while in the lead?  Not the newly elected Pewds, that was for sure.  Ducking out into the streets, Mark leads Jack on a merry good chase without overtly sprinting for his life – no need to end up in custody for suspicious behavior, after all.  He actually gets pretty far – he has literally no idea where he is by the time he stops, and the Irish wind is in full skin-scourging form this morning, making his wet hair a decided disadvantage – but eventually, Jack catches up to him, snagging him by the back of his shirt and hauling him backward.

 

Normally, Mark could counterbalance it, but Jack catches him _mid-stride_ , so he falls flat on his ass.  With the same verve, Jack grabs his shirt, hauls him upward, and says shortly, “My phone, good sir.”

 

Resigned, Mark fishes it out of his pocket and hands it to him, sporting a couple more bruises and a fiendish smile.  “Good game,” he says, shaking Jack’s hand with mock formality.

 

“That an American thing?” Jack asks, squinting suspiciously at him, holding the phone at arm’s length so he can capture them both in the frame.  Mark waits a beat before slowly sinking down, disappearing out of view.  “Anyway, this doofus is here,” Jack announces, glancing at him after a beat, gaze lowering conspicuously when he realizes Mark is no longer in frame.  “Err, was here.”  Tilting the camera down to find Mark crouched on the pavement, Jack snorts and says dryly, “Seventh most subscribed YouTuber of all time, folks!”

 

Remaining in his invisible hermit crab shell, Mark waits until Jack gives up, lifts the camera back to himself, and tells his fans, “This has been another thrilling safari hunt featuring Mark-ip-lier, formerly pink-haired wonder and Myspace _legend_.”

 

“I don’t even _have_ a Myspace account,” Mark outros, because Jack clicks the stop recording button immediately after.  Straightening with a chest-deep groan, Mark adds, “You’re fast, but you ain’t got shit on my evasive maneuvering game.”

 

“Don’t make me chase you again,” Jack warns, prodding his chest with a finger.  “Besides, I had to give you a head-start to grab the _key_.”  Flashing the card, he adds, “Unless you’d rather tell the nice hotel desk people why a coupl’a grown men were having a rousing game of tag at six o’clock in the mornin’.”

 

“It’s the prime time,” Mark says seriously.

 

Jack rolls his eyes and marches back towards the hotel, adding, “Okay, Google.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back to another safari hunt with the one, the only, JackSepticEye TWO.”

 

“Hey, how come _you_ get to be JackSepticEye One?” Mark asks, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a small flock of sheep crowding around him, nibbling at his handful of oats.

 

“Didn’t say I was, but thank you for assumin’,” Jack says, grinning.  “Anyway, look at all these sheep!  Look at ‘em!”

 

“Did you know sheep – ow – outnumber people – OW – in Ireland?” Mark closes his empty hands as another ewe nips his palm, searching fruitlessly for food.  “Additional fun fact: I am not made of oats.”

 

“Yeh heard it here first.  Maerk is na’ made’a oats.”

 

* * *

 

“Fuck you, and also fuck you, and also FUUUUCK YOUUUUU.”

 

Bob cackles; Wade brushes a tear from his eye, saying via webcam, “How’s seventeen cards feel, buddy?”

 

“Oh, it’s the _best_ ,” the ghost of Markiplier grunts, dipping into his Patrick Star register.  “It’s mah faaaaavorite.”

 

“I kicked your ass,” Jack muses in real time, taking a huge bite of soda bread before offering Mark the loaf.  Like cavemen, they simply pry off chunks, spilling crumbs all over the table and not caring.  It’s nice.  Super chill.  Mark needs more chill in his life, even if his webcam self is currently howling in outrage after being skipped for the second time in a row in virtual UNO.  “Not that it’s hard, mind.”

 

“My ass is well-fortified,” Mark retorts.

 

“Now _that_ sounded sexual,” Jack points out, rolling his eyes and snatching the soda bread back.  “Don’t eat it all, ya dummy, I want some.”

 

“Then you should’a had some,” Mark replies, sliding the bread back to his chest and hunching over it protectively, flicking out of the video.  So far, so good.  They won’t post the vlogs until _after_ Mark’s out of the country – Jack, too.  They’ll be mobbed at the airport if they let it slip too early.

 

“ _I_ bought the _bread_ ,” Jack reminds emphatically, stealing his phone and holding it up to his open mouth.  “You give me my bread back, or the phone gets it.”

 

“You wouldn’t.”

 

In response, Jack puts the phone between but not against his teeth, arching his eyebrows.

 

Sighing, Mark releases the bread, and Jack slides him the phone back.  “You’re worse than Bob,” Mark grumbles good-naturedly.  “And he refused to help me get out of a dryer.”

 

Jack snorts a laugh, demanding, “The fuck were yeh doin’ in a dryer?”

 

Mark rolls his eyes.  “Getting dry,” he replies, like it’s obvious.  “Water Balloon Challenge Part 3.”

 

“Ohhhhh.”  Grinning, Jack adds, “I’m pretty jealous yeh got a fuckin’ _slip-‘n’-slide_ just fer that one.”

 

“Actually, we bought the slip-‘n’-slide because we wanted it,” Mark corrects.  “We made up the challenge for views.”

 

“Sorely lacking for those,” Jack replies, rummaging around the hotel room for his own bag.  “Where’d ya put my bag, Maerk?”

 

“Didn’t touch it,” Mark replies, surreptitiously using his foot to push it farther under the little table, gaze on his phone.

 

“Gotta take these fuckin’ contacts out before my eyes fall out,” Jack narrates, still rooting around his bed.

 

“Shouldn’t have left the case in the bag,” Mark sing-songs, flipping through the comments idly.  “Hey, Jack, when’re we announcing our baby?” he calls over.

 

Jack yelps and says, “Fuck!” as he clips his foot on Mark’s bag, conveniently placed around the corner.  “Septiplier’s still alive, huh?”

 

Wagging the phone at him, Mark says, “See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

 

Shaking his head, Jack begins, “No, no, I beli—” His gaze falls suddenly to Mark’s feet.  Mark doesn’t move the bag again, knowing it’ll give it away completely.  “Oh, you think yeh’re cute, ah?”  Jack picks up Mark’s bag, unzips it, and says, “Turnabout is fair play.”

 

“Jack, no – Jack, _don’t_ –”

 

Serenely, Jack tips the entire load onto the balcony, open zipper down, spilling Mark’s clothes into the beautifully brisk Irish evening air.  “That’ll teach ya, yeh good-for-nothin’ cocksucker,” he finishes cheerfully, shutting the door.

 

Grumbling, Mark pushes back from his chair, stalking over to retrieve the items.  “This is because we didn’t invite you to Water Wars Three, isn’t it?”

 

“This is because yeh need humblin’,” Jack replies, yanking his bag out from under the table.  For good measure, he props his feet up on the chair opposite, adding sweetly, “So, how’d yeh get outta the dryer?”

 

Hauling his stuff inside and snapping the door shut, Mark grunts, “Carefully.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s not fair,” Jack says, hugging him good and tight, “that yeh get premium access to a slip-‘n’-slide while I’m stuck out here with the ewes.”

 

“Please pass my letters of affection along to them daily,” Mark implores, squeezing him back.  They don’t hug like this in public much – it’s kind of awkward, knowing that there’ll be gifs of it forever within hours – but it’s nice to take a moment in private to sincerely enjoy each other’s company.  “I’ll literally die if those sheep don’t know how much I love them.”

 

“Tell ‘em yerself,” Jack says lightly, pushing him back with a playful cuff to the shoulder.  “Gonna miss ya.”

 

“Gonna miss you, too, buddy.”

 

“Visit more’n once every ten years.  I’ll have a full Gandolfian beard next time I see yeh otherwise.”

 

“That,” Mark says, hauling his bag over his shoulder – stuffing down the sad little feeling in his gut that their trip is already over because he can cry _later_ – and finishing, “is an incentive, not a deterrent, Sean.”

 

Stroking an invisible long-beard thoughtfully, Jack admits, “Kinda is, isn’t it?”  Then, checking his watch, he snags the strap of Mark’s bag and hauls him, saying sharply, “We gotta _go_.”

 

They make it to the airport in time – barely – and the sendoff is about one-point-eight seconds long, featuring Jack propelling him forward more than hugging him, insisting, “Don’t get yerself stuck in a dryer” as his parting advice.

 

Sitting on the plane, cheek against the window, Mark whiles away the time dreaming of sheep slip-‘n’-sliding while Jack waits impatiently in line behind them.


	9. You Won't BELIEVE Who Got Stuck In This Dryer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salutations! This chapter is actually a "throwback" to a fictional event Mark brought up in the previous chapter. The next chapter will resume in chronological order from the Ireland visit.

“Hey, buddy.”

 

Mark peers up over the rim of the dryer, a lazy smile unspooling across his face, happy even for the camera.  “Hey, buddy,” he mimics.  “You bring the jaws-of-life?”

 

In response, Bob holds up a blue Fla-Vor-Ice popsicle stick.  “No,” he admits, “but I brought you this.”  Mark holds out a hand, and Bob sets the popsicle in it.  “You know, you’re actually almost dry now,” he adds, amused.

 

“It _is_ a dryer,” Mark points out.

 

“Uh huh.”  Stepping back, he captures the full view image of Mark wedged inside the dryer like a child in a tire.  Amused, he says, “Physics is on your side, but I have no idea how you’re going to get out of there.”

 

“My manly _brawn_ can’t be contained,” Mark assures, flexing for the camera.  Then he sits up a little, clipping his head on the ceiling for the fourth time, and grunts, “Okay, my manly brawn _can_ be contained, but it can’t be stopped.”

 

“Should I call Tyler?”

 

“What’s Tyler gonna do?”

 

“Uh.”  With obvious patience, Bob explains, “Be Tyler?”  Less cryptically, he adds, “He’s only been on the road for twenty minutes; I’m sure he’d swing back around.”

 

“Yeah, and then I’d have to explain to another human being what a douche I am.”

 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t’ve climbed inside a dryer.”

 

“Well, maybe ya should’ve stopped me, _Bob_.  You’re the smart one.”

 

Bob snorts.  “Chaotic evil.  Your trust is misplaced.”

 

“That’s fair.”  Unwrapping part of the popsicle, Mark sticks it in his mouth and says around it, “Technically, forty million people are gonna know what a douche I am once we post the video.”  He bites down, crunching loudly.  “What’s the least click-baity title you can think of?”

 

Bob thinks for a long moment.  “You Won’t BELIEVE Who Got Stuck in This Dryer!”

 

Sucking on the popsicle, Mark deadpans, “You’re hired.”

 

“Wow, that’s a dream come true.  And I didn’t even have to suck your dick.”

 

Mark pauses, popsicle still hanging indiscreetly from his mouth, before he bites down again, chewing over a mouthful.  “Now I’ve gotta age-restrict the video,” he points out, feigning exasperation.  “You know what happens to age-restricted videos, Bob?  They get demonetized.”

 

“I could bleep it out.”

  
“And _I_ didn’t even have to BLEEP your BLEEP.”  Snorting, Mark rearranges himself carefully.  It’s far from comfortable, but it’s just roomy enough that his neck isn’t actively being crushed into his chest, and he can wrap his arms around his knees easily.  “Bob, you’re a genius.”  He finishes off the popsicle and crumples up the plastic, setting it outside the dryer.

 

“Confirmed: Markiplier litters.”

 

“It doesn’t count as littering in your own home.”

 

“This isn’t your home.  It’s my home.”

 

“I would never have gotten stuck in _my_ dryer,” Mark agrees, shifting around.  “I’m a full-time gamer.  There’s no way I can’t figure this one out.”

 

“I’m sure you’re not the first person who’s gotten stuck in a dryer,” Bob points out.

 

A lightbulb goes off in Mark’s head.  Looking up at Bob brightly, he says, “Can you bring me my phone?”

 

“I don’t know,” Bob deadpans, “ _can_ —”

 

“I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

 

“Okay, now I _am_ just sucking your dick,” Bob says.

 

“You mean you’re BLEEPING my BLEEP.”

 

“Nope, that’s worse.”

 

“Bob, please.  I’m stuck in a dryer.  I have no phone.  I’m all out of popsicles.  My crops are failing.  I’m desperate.”

 

“What crops?”

 

“Markiplier’s Manly Ego-Feeding Corn,” he supplies immediately.  Putting on his best puppy eyes, he entreats, “Bob.  Bob, please.”  Bob wanders off, and he calls out, “BOB.”

 

A goodly time later, Bob reappears, waving Mark’s phone back and forth.  “Twenty dollars is pretty cheap,” he teases.  “Is that all my friendship is worth to you?”

 

“Bob.  Bob, please.”

 

With an amused sigh, Bob hands him the phone.  Within seconds of imploring the Internet for advice, Mark realizes he’s royally fucked.  For the camera’s benefit, he narrates, “Nope, nope, nope, nope,” as he tries different themes on ‘stuck in dryer; help??’  YouTube provides plenty of examples of people climbing _into_ dryers, but none in reverse.  Apparently, everyone who attempts the feat simply lives the rest of their natural life in a dryer.

 

“All right,” he says in defeat, “maybe it’s time to call Tyler.”

 

“The first step to getting help is admitting there’s a problem,” Bob says, and Mark flips him off as he switches around to Tyler’s phone, calling him.  For their future audience’s benefit, he puts it on speaker.

 

“Heeyyyyy, Tyler.  I have a really quick question.”

 

“… _You’re stuck in the dryer, aren’t you?_ ”

 

“Nooo?”

 

“ _Feet-first.  You’ll fuck up your neck if you try your arms.  You facing North or South?_ ”

 

“I don’t have a _compass_ ,” Mark says.  But he does have a _phone_ , which means: “Oh, wait –” Fumbling with the settings, he beams as he pulls up an inbuilt compass app, adding, “Uh… looks like I’m pointing East, actually.”

 

“ _No, I mean – which limb is closest to the opening?_ ”

 

“My foot.”

 

“ _Left or right?_ ”

 

It clicks.  “Oh.  Right,” he adds cheerfully.

 

“ _Cool, you’re facing North._ ”

 

“The compass says—”

 

“ _It’s relative.  Like a clock.  You’ve heard of twelve, three, six, and nine?  North is twelve._ ”

 

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

 

“ _Move your right foot towards the ceiling.  Get as flat on your back as you can._ ”

  
“This feels like the world’s worst game of Twister,” Mark says, obligingly sliding down until he’s almost flat on the ground, feet above him.

 

“ _Hopefully not.  I don’t want you to throw your neck out if you fuck this up._ ”

 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

 

“ _You get your back to the floor?_ ”

 

Mark holds up a thumbs-up.  “Uh huh.”

 

“ _Cool.  Slide your right foot towards the opening._ ”

 

Slowly, Mark obliges.  “You’re not gonna make me do a split, are you?”

 

“ _I’m pretty sure that’s impossible, since I’m stuck in traffic thirty minutes away._ ”

 

“Still.”  Grunting, Mark gets in position, right foot on the edge of the dryer.  “’kay.  Foot is at the edge.”

 

“ _All right.  It’s just like parallel parking.  You move at a diagonal to start and then you get horizontal_.”

 

“That sentence was so sensual.  I am turned on right now,” Mark says, deliberately lowering his voice to a growl.

 

Utterly nonplussed, Tyler continues, “ _Get your right foot over the edge.  The rest of your leg will follow.  It’s like climbing out of a bathtub._ ”

 

Mark snorts, carefully obliging.  “Exactly how many bathtubs have you crab-walked out of, Tyler?”

 

“ _Just go slow.  You’ll get stuck again if you don’t get your leg out all the way._ ”

 

“You’re really – aiding my confidence,” Mark grunts, successfully sliding his leg out of the dryer.  It’s pretty easy, except it means he has to straddle the edge of the dryer opening at a high angle, which is uncomfortable, to say the least.  “Okay, now what?” he asks, voice a little tight.

 

“ _Crabwalk,_ ” Tyler says eloquently.  “ _Get your hands flat on the floor of the dryer and push up until you can get your butt over the edge.  You can use your right foot to hold onto the top of the dryer for leverage, but it’s basically a lift and scoot problem._ ”

 

“My favorite,” Mark grunts, and adds, “I’m gonna have to put my phone aside so I can do this.  Give me ooooone seeecond…”  Extending his right arm out of the dryer – which puts an inconvenient strain on his neck in this position, _owie_ – he hands Bob the phone.  Still recording on his own phone, Bob graciously pockets Mark’s.  “Okie dokie, here goes nothing,” he declares, and pushes both palms flat against the floor before leveraging himself into a reverse push-up position.

 

It takes three attempts to logic the strategy in his brain – Tyler’s occasional remarks of, “ _Did you die?_ ” answered by Mark’s strained, “Not yet” – but eventually, he manages to crab-walk out of the dryer.  Flopping down on the floor, he exhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment in relief.

 

“I diiiiiid it,” he declares audibly for Tyler’s benefit.

 

“ _Cool.  I’m gonna keep driving now._ ”

 

“Should I be asking how you knew how to get out of a dryer?”

 

“ _Bye, Mark._ ”

 

Click.  Huffing once in amusement, Mark looks up at Bob.  “I’m never doing that again,” he says cheerfully.

 

“That should be your catchphrase,” Bob replies.

 

Taking the suggestion to heart, Mark titles the video: “I’m Never Doing That Again.”


	10. We Interrupt Our Usual Nonsense to Bring You A Word From Our Sponsors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen "MY NEW CAR" or "The 'FRIENDLY' Ice Cream Truck" Markiplier vids, you'll better understand this chapter. :)

“Hey.  HEY.

 

“Focus!  We’re not gonna – what are you lookin’ at?  You see some birds?  That's great.  Now FOCUS. 

 

"Okay, so, here on Team Markiplier, we’re firm believers in … practical outdoor woodsy experience.  Because sometimes, in life, things happen, and you get stuck in the woods and you think, ‘Oh, no, what’m I gonna do here?’  Look at – birds, apparently.

 

“But that’s what you would be doing if you DIDN'T watch this video.  But you are watching this video.  In the present.  Which is the future.  Because you’re a time-traveling _ghoooooost_ and time is an _illuuuuusion_ —!

 

“So, the first thing you’re gonna need for your eight-month long venture into the woods is firewood, to make fire.  Luckily, there is – are – there’s a lotta wood in the woods.  See?  Those trees, those are wood.  These dirt – these LEAVES, these are wood!  If you believe in them hard enough, THEY.  CAN.  BE.  WOOD.

 

“Second thing you need is fire, to make the fire — the wood – the fire wood.  Now, the fastest way TO GET fire is to summon Satan to cast an incendiary spell on whatever flammable surface you got, but data messaging rates apply and not everybody’s rollin’ in dough.  Don’t worry!  You can always ask the rain god, FOR FREE, to smite you with CELESTIAL FIRE.  All you gotta do is -- here, I'll show ya.  See that tree over there?  We’re gonna climb that tree.

 

“Okay, first thing you might notice is that this tree is high, which is GOOD.  We’ll be seen more easily by the rain god.  The second thing is that I am wearing my darkest t-shirt, for CONTRAST, so that I am even more visible.  If you do not own a certified Markiplier holographic black slash medium slash unisex slash sold-out t-shirt, then … you’ll just … um.

 

“Terrific!  Now that you have your fire, and your wood, you can make FIRE WOOD.  You have completed your first step of surviving the next forty-two years in the woods.  Congratulations!!  Insert cheesy congratulatory audio graphic here—

 

“‘But Marki-Bear-Gryllis-Moo, don’t I need—’  Don't you EVER.  Way to be scampy, scamp!  Sustenance is KEY.  Luckily, there are bears, in the woods, and if you fight the bears and win, you get to keep all of the food packages that the UPS delivery guys would otherwise give to the bears.  In the event that your woods have a shortage of bears, then you can simply eat the wood.

 

“Eating the wood is not advised, as it will be your only friend for the next hundred years that you are lost in the woods.

 

“But don’t worry!!  Soon you will be not lost, in the woods, because the next step to SURVIVING in the WILDER is to find CIVILIZATION.  And everyone knows the slime people are abundant in the woods.  See that slime?  We’re gonna go climb – uh –

 

“RIGHT-E-O, mate, here’s our slime people!  Don’t touch, they are poisonous and will probably kill you.  Don’t forget, touching the slime people is harassment and punishable by life in a space-bound prison cell.  The more you know!

 

“But if you become lost in the woods, all you must do to find your sanity is to engage the slime people, preferably with bongos and loud yodeling.  OBSERVE!

 

“Enough’a THAT stuff, let’s get to the fourth ‘f’ of survival!  You’ve got fire, food, and friends – which means the only thing left is forn—

 

“—tification!  Shelter is what you will need to survive the next five hundred years in the woods.  Now, the wood itself, our fire-food-and-friend, can also serve as fortification in the event of a titanic WIND-storm, or a de-LUGE, or simply an unpleasant encounter with a BIG-FOOT.  This. Is.  KEY.

 

“There are four basic structures that YOU.  MUST.  KNOW. To survive in the woods.  Due to copyright laws, we cannot legally state any of them on camera now.  Never stopped us before! The four styles are –-

 

“—and THAT is how baby seahorses are born!  Nature is amazing! 

 

“Okay, so you’ve got your fire, food, friends, and fort, now we just need our fifth and final f of survival: FLEECE.

 

“Fleece will keep you WARM during the long summer nights in the woods, when the temperature plummets to _thousands_ of degrees below the surface temperature of the sun.  NOT ANY OL’ FLEECE WILL DO.  You need certified Markiplier fleece to survive these brutishly long, unrelentingly cold, unsurvivably fierce summer nights!

 

“Which is why you can go to Markiplier dot com RIGHT NOW to purchase your very own certified Markiplier grey slash medium slash unisex slash SAVE THE SLIME PEOPLE fleece.  Markiplier grey slash medium slash unisex slash SAVE THE SLIME PEOPLE is also available in SEXYMARK black and sex … suh … SLENDYMAN white.

 

“All right, Markimeople, go out there, get lost in the woods, and enjoy your slow descent into madness alongside the slime people in your STYLISH new Markiplier fleece!  Sizes may vary, recommended-machine-wash-air-dry, pre-shrunk, grey-slash-medium-slash-SLIME MAN—”


	11. Warpaint Advised, Kevlar Required

“Hello, e’rybody, my name is Markiplier, and today I’m joined by my friends, Tyler, Ethan, Wade, and Bob, to do the Paintball Challenge!  We’ve got our paintball guns, our paintball gear, and our paintball gumption, and we’re gonna kick some paintball ass!  We each have a different colored set of paintballs – I’m blue, Tyler’s green, Ethan’s red, Wade is yellow, and Bob is orange – and the objective is to land as many hits as possible while not getting hit in return.  The loser gets shamed, the winner gets $500.”

 

“Wait, for real?” Wade asks.

 

Mark rolls his eyes, grunts, “Did I stutter?” and cocks his gun loudly before marching off-screen, signaling the end of the intro.

 

In the editing room, they’ll jump-cut to the start of the competition, but in the field they have to go through their real-time paces, making sure Go-Pros are in place and duly defended against stray shots.  “I mean, one of these fuckers could probably break it, but we’re trying for no headshots,” Mark says, indicating the balls in his gun.  “If you break it, you buy it.”

 

“Technically, we already bought it,” Bob points out dryly, Go Pro already on his head.

 

“Then you buy the replacement,” Mark retorts, rolling his eyes.  “Get with the program, _Bob_.”

 

It takes a solid eight minutes to finalize the pre-challenge setup, despite having everything mostly in order before they hit record for the intro.  They’re in their starting hideouts within ten, and the final steer-clear warning is given to Amy and Kat before the fifteen-minute mark passes.  Then the cameras start rolling – seven in all; five Go Pros and two professional recording cameras set to capture broader shots – and the cut footage finally ends.

 

Parked behind a thick wall of protective padding, Mark wonders how many hours of dead space he’s erased over the years.  Given how much _public_ footage there is, the number of hours must be in the thousands; maybe even tens of thousands.  It seems surreal to think about all of that empty space.  The biomedical engineer in him thinks that it’s like DNA: 97% of it is just fuck-all-if-we-know information, an overwhelming percentage of cut material for a tiny sliver of reality.  Of course, it’s not really _cut_ , any more than the footage that they don’t air is deleted from reality.  It’s all part of memory, all serving its own vague purpose.  The fact that the purpose of the unaired footage is ambiguous is strangely entrancing.

 

The question it leads to is so profound – _what even is the meaning of life?_ – that Mark misses the starting signal.  Instead, he hears the kerfuffle of his friends scrambling to attack first and defend second, kickstarting his own adrenaline.  Heart pounding with glee, he throws himself into the game, surging down the playing field towards his rivals, staying low and covered.

 

He’s almost to Ethan’s starting point when the first paintball explodes against his left hip with bruising force, nearly knocking him off his feet.  Biting back a yowl of pain, he ducks behind cover and immediately turns his gun on his attacker, firing at Tyler.  He lands a shot on Tyler’s sternum, and it _does_ knock a grunt out of Tyler, staggering him and granting Mark a window to escape.  Without waiting for a counterstrike, Mark surges into Ethan’s abandoned hidey-hole and takes aim at Ethan’s back, just visible behind a padded wall nearby.

 

At the start of the game, there were just two options: defend and stay, or attack and leave.  Mark isn’t surprised that Ethan chose the latter; any defender will quickly find themselves at a disadvantage, a sitting duck in a mobile sport.  It’s more promising to work the maze of padded walls and stay on the move than it is to hunker down and hope your enemies don’t chase you all the way to your hidey-hole.

 

But the attack and leave approach isn’t without a dangerous flaw: it creates an inherent vulnerability.  It’s impossible to simultaneously move forward and watch one’s own back. 

 

Ten feet away, Ethan is almost but not entirely shielded by a padded wall, back dangerously exposed, attention rigidly focused in the opposite direction.  Pointing his gun right at that vulnerable edge, Mark fires.  His shot lands, spattering blue across Ethan’s shoulders, and Ethan howls in surprise and pain, retreating to safety as Tyler surges back to try to land another shot on Mark.

 

Wade intervenes with his own shot, unintentionally sparing Mark a second hit as Tyler is forced to retaliate or flee under the new onslaught.  Soon, it’s pandemonium, and Mark isn’t sure whether Wade, Bob, or Tyler is taking hits amid the grunts and bellows of successful strikes, but he stays low, and creeps away from the epicenter to redefine his relationship with each of the players.

 

He loves everything about strategy games, about the slow hunt, the long hunt, and deliberately chooses challenges that provide an opportunity to employ them.  No matter how ridiculous, there is always a way to work the system.  Even if that way is simply using as much bravado as he can summon and bulling his way towards success, he will use anything and everything at his disposal.  Winning isn’t just about glory; it’s about _rewarding_.

 

That’s why video games appeal to so many people: they feed the brain’s reward center, enticing participants to keep playing, to keep engaging in the positive action that leads to positive results.

 

Even if that action is grueling and the endgame is tragic, the overall sense of accomplishment tends to overcome even the darkest themes, leading to a profound sense of satisfaction at the end of nearly every game.  But the immersion – the feeling of being thrust into a completely different plane of existence, where only his technical knowhow and fearless chutzpah can keep him alive – brings with it an even more elaborate reward.  It’s like living in another reality, where he can play bigger stakes and seek bigger rewards than he would ever dare try in the real world.

 

And no matter what Mark Fischbach is in this simpler world without dragons and Gorgons and whatever other creatures one cares to conspire, he is a bold, fearless protagonist in the heart of the game, and he won’t be stopped until the game itself refuses to let him go on.

 

He doesn’t know when the others stop firing at each other, but the spine-chilling detente makes his own breathing seem loud.  He holds his breath to quiet it, but his heartbeat pounds in the silence, making it harder still to detect where they are, where they’re going.  Giving up, he exhales slowly, and proceeds at a low, loping run towards the nearest target.  He finds three, and fires at each of them, bang-bang-bang!, before diving behind a nearby cover.  He doesn’t have time to catch his breath, scrambling for better cover, about-facing sharply to retaliate when he realizes he needs to deter more than he needs to hide.

 

It isn’t until he clicks his gun and there is no blue capsule that he realizes he’s out of ammo.  Instinctively, he thinks, _There’s gotta be more_ , and wants to press on through the maze to find it.  But the extra capsules don’t exist; he has one set, and one set only, and now it’s gone, and there are still other shots landing too close to him.

 

Mark bolts, still holding onto his gun, desperately trying to evade a gleeful Tyler closing in, ready to exact his revenge on a helpless opponent.  There can’t be ten paces between them when Tyler abruptly changes his mind when he nearly trips over Ethan, firing a shot at him that quickly turns into a dogpile as Bob and Wade join in.  Still retreating, Mark can’t tell what colors are on their clothes, but he has a strong suspicion that they don’t sport each other’s.  Alliances are powerful, and Bob and Wade make a lethal team whenever they play under the same flag.  Even Tyler would be wiser to stay out of their range, but the chance to establish a clear loser is too good to pass up.

 

Ethan escapes, somehow, because Mark is still crawling around the field, trying to come up with a viable strategy to put himself back in the game, when he bumps into Ethan, almost gun-first.  It’s up in a second, at any rate, and he gets off two shots before Mark full-tilt sprints for cover at the opposite side of the field, needing to put distance between them more than he needs to stay low.

 

Of course, such a choice calls attention to itself, and soon he’s dodging more than Ethan’s bullets as Bob and Wade war-cry and fire, first at him but then, unexpectedly but still somehow inevitably, at Tyler.  Naturally, Tyler gives as good as he gets, a third and inevitably final melee ensuing as paintballs fly and yells fill the air.

 

Mark throws himself down behind a pad near his original hidey-hole as first one, and then two guns click without firing.  He doesn’t lift himself to see who is out – he just waits for the final bullets to dispense, yowling sharply in pain when a paintball explodes across his right calf.  He twists but not fast enough to escape another shot, higher up, uncomfortably close to his dick.

 

Luckily, even Wade’s not that cruel, and his next shot is set for Mark’s stomach when he rolls, lunges, and honest-to-God tackles Wade to the ground, wresting his gun from him in a flurry of movement.  He doesn’t hesitate to fire a shot at Wade’s left thigh to force him to back off before he’s flying across the field, the gun still hot from Wade’s hands but loaded, _loaded_ , not much left, he has no idea how many paint capsules are left and doesn’t have time to check as he tracks down the last man standing.

 

It’s Tyler, wielding Bob’s gun.  Mark doesn’t know whether to be surprised at the audacity – Bob is a bear of a man, and Mark wouldn’t be surprised if foul play was the only way to subdue him – or amused at the coincidence – because Tyler and he are fast friends and fierce enemies in turn on the field.

 

He can’t count how many shots Tyler has left, even as they stand facing each other across the middle line.  He doesn’t dare look down to see how decorated he is compared to the intimidatingly sparse set of shots on Tyler’s chest.  There can’t be more than four hits, an astoundingly low number.  If Mark wants to win, then he needs to get at least another shot in – something, anything to raise his odds, because he’s almost positive that he has at least five hits.

 

He takes in a breath, and asks in a bold, clarion-clear voice, “Do you surrender?”

 

Tyler huffs, almost a laugh, and then mid-breath he fires, and Mark pulls his own trigger in tandem.

 

An orange capsule explodes across his jaw; a yellow one sinks into Tyler’s gut.  Firing again, he lands two more strikes to Tyler’s torso before the gun finally clicks hollowly, empty.

 

Tyler pulls his own trigger one last time, but the shot misses as Mark ducks more instinctively than consciously out of the way.  When it clicks, empty, extinguished, the game ends.

 

Slowly, the others right themselves in the maze and regard each other thoughtfully, sizing up the damage.  Bob has no blue but plenty of green; Mark has every color except red; and Tyler, Ethan, and Wade have full palettes.  Jaw aching profoundly from the illegal hit, Mark aches to call it a five-way tie and buy them pizza to call it a day.  Judging by their expressions, he even thinks they’d agree to it.

 

But they’re on camera, so to speak – although this moment will amount to more dead space, the quiet aftermath, the puzzled aftermath – and he’ll have to trash the challenge if he fails to uphold his own word.  Markiplier is nothing but a man of his word.  At last, he says aloud slowly, “Let’s tally it up.”

 

The impartial judges help them arrive at fair counts.  Tyler edges Mark out of the lead with two points; even discarding the illegal hit, it’s still a win.  Ethan comes in last place with a four-point difference separating his mosaic from Wade’s.  More sore than disappointed, Mark goes through the motions of pronouncing Tyler King on camera, dutifully fishing a single bill out of his pocket and presenting it to him with a grave, “Your prize.”

 

It’s a $500 Monopoly money bill. 

 

Tyler’s braying laugh triggers a round of giggles, and Ethan makes a point of seizing the bill, sniffing it audibly, and declaring with dreamy wonder, “It’s _real_.”

 

It’s a good cut scene, but Mark refuses to let the journey end with false promises, so after a dead space interval featuring many groans and a few painkillers as well as a change of clothes, a negotiation for dinner dancing around an energetic battle in Mario Kart, and finally a few fizzy drinks and a couple rounds chicken and dumplings at Cracker Barrel, Mark fishes out his checkbook, signs it for the aforementioned $500.00, adds “for the Paintball Champion” in the tagline, and presents it to Tyler with a simple flourish.

 

Tyler slides him back the $500 Monopoly bill with a grin, and Mark smiles around the bruise forming on his jaw as he stuffs it back in his pocket.

 

He’s so sore even lying in bed is painful that night, especially after the painkillers wear off at two AM and he has to stumble, zombie-esque-like, towards reprieve.  But surrounded by friends and stuffed with chicken and dumplings, he truly can’t be happier in the moment.

 

Amy takes a picture of the check and the Monopoly money, discreetly shrouding the personal information from public view, before posting it to Twitter with a simple note: “He’s the real deal.”

 

His life is full of bruises earned in mock battles and dead space comprising his off-screen self, but there’s something reassuring about the way it all ties together, how he can play the real games and still build meaningful relationships in the space in between, the space within.  Sure, he loves the adrenaline rush, the fight for the finish, the final showdown and the display of dominance, ultimacy.  But he especially loves laughing at a table with his friends because they’ll always be on the same team at the end of the day.


	12. SOAPY TWISTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed you lovely nerds and I couldn't resist a much-overdue installment in this series, so I hope you'll enjoy this one! I had fun writing it.

“Hello, everybody, my name is Markiplier, and today, we’re playing Soapy Twister!  I brought Dingus One and Dingus Two along with me, so we’re gonna have a good time.”

 

“Which one of us is Dingus One?” Tyler asks, adjusting the mat on the grass.

 

“Whoever loses first.”

 

“What if _you_ lose first?” Ethan challenges, sitting nearby.  He flicks the spinner absentmindedly.

 

Swiping the board from him, Mark replies loftily, “I never lose.”  Then, fishing a whistle from inside his shirt, he blows it and announces, “Let the games – game – begin!”

 

* * *

 

“Right foot red,” Tyler reads off.

 

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” Mark says, sliding his foot carefully across the mat from a blue circle to the adjacent red circle.  He has his hands on his hips and his left foot on a yellow circle, planting him in a superheroic stance.  The soap makes the position precarious, but with only one column separating his feet, he feels steady.

 

Crouched with his left foot on blue and right foot on yellow, Tyler flicks the spinner again.  “Left hand red,” he instructs Ethan, who lets out a strained huff.  His right foot is already planted on a green circle; the stretch to the red on the opposite side is not inconsiderable.  With the soap slicking up the playing field, he holds his ground, but only just.

 

“Right hand blue,” he adds, obligingly placing his own hand on a blue circle.  “We might have a problem,” he adds, indicating the board.  “I can’t reach it like this.”

 

“ _I’ll_ do it,” Mark says with a faux put-upon sigh.  Tyler slides the board towards him.  Reaching down, Mark flicks the spinner authoritatively.  “Left hand green,” he adds, assuming a pre-handstand position, one hand on the ground and the other up in the air.  “A’right, maybe we need a designated spinner,” he admits, glancing at the board on the ground in front of him.  “Impartial judges?” he adds hopefully.

 

“You got soap on the spinner,” Amy points out, sauntering over.  Gamely, she picks the board up anyway.  “Okay.  We’re on Tyler, right?”

 

“Uh huh,” Tyler says, still crouched over the circles.  “I trust you.”

 

“Right hand green,” Amy instructs.

 

“I no longer trust you,” Tyler replies, sliding underneath Ethan’s arched form to manage it.  It’s precarious, and Ethan lets out a nervous laugh.

 

“Don’t you dare sabotage me,” he warns.

 

“If anything, I’d sabotage Mark,” Tyler retorts, reaching out and tugging on Mark’s closest ankle, _hard_.  He almost goes down, letting out an indignant squawk as he resets himself.

 

“ _Rude_.  Five-point penalty.”

 

“We’re not keeping points,” Tyler reminds him.

 

“Ten-point penalty for backtalk,” Mark grunts.

 

“Right foot yellow,” Amy tells Mark.

 

With his left hand on green and his left foot on yellow, sliding his right foot from red to yellow merits moving it three-quarters of the way across the mat. “All right, if I knee you in the nuts, it’s on purpose,” he warns Ethan.

 

“Please don’t,” Ethan says earnestly.

 

“Nope, too late,” Mark grunts, sliding his foot forward – with great haste, knowing that if he slows down he’ll botch the operation.  As it stands, he barely keeps his footing, putting his weight on his hand for balance.

 

“Left hand blue,” Amy adds cheerfully, and Ethan lets out a relieved sigh as he slides his arm over one space, relieving some of the tension in his position.  Still, even the slight movement threatens to topple his precarious tower.  Amy flicks the spinner again.

 

“Right foot green,” she tells Tyler.

 

Eyeing the mat dubiously, Tyler asks, “Is that even possible?”  Given his current configuration, it merits sliding his right foot across the board while keeping his right hand and left foot steady on two blue circles.

 

“Quit bein’ a baby and move,” Mark says, voice strained, eager to move his own hand.

 

“Here goes,” Tyler announces, shuffling into a runner’s stance, right foot arched on the green circle.

 

Amy flicks the spinner, pauses, and lets out a little laugh.  “Left hand blue,” she tells Mark.

 

“I’m too _old_ for this,” he groans theatrically, keeping both feet on yellow circles and arching his left hand behind himself, three-quarters of the way to a crab-walk.  “Amy, you’re supposed to rig it so I win,” he adds.

 

“What happened to impartiality?” Amy teases, flicking the spinner.  “Left hand red,” she tells Ethan.

 

Ethan lets out a sad little sound and replaces his hand in its former position, commanding the breadth of the board with his right foot on green.  “This game _is_ rigged,” he states emphatically.

 

“Rigged against _losers_ ,” Mark agrees, human-pyramiding.  For now.  His left hand is squeezing the mat in a vice-like grip, inhibited by a generous coating of dish soap.  “Keep it comin’, Amy.”

 

Amy flicks the board twice before coming up with a non-repeat.  “Left foot green,” she says.

 

Tyler obliges and promptly seizes the mat in a death-grip, narrowly avoiding catastrophic failure.  “Nope, this is worse,” he says aloud, his right hand on the blue circle, left behind his back while both feet commandeer green circles.  There’s only one green circle left, Mark notes.

 

“Right hand yellow.”

 

Mark looks at the board and says in a strained voice, “Nope.”

 

“Do you concede?” Ethan asks loftily.

 

“Nope,” Mark repeats heavily.  With both feet on yellow and his left hand trapped on blue, his only option is to reach for the middle yellow circle.  Extending his arm hopefully, he comes up short.  “Come – _on_.”

 

“Give it up,” Ethan suggests gleefully.

 

“Never – _surrender_ ,” Mark growls, but he’s not getting any closer to his target.  “Amy.  Amy, why are you doing this to me?”  Dropping into the lowest crouch he can manage, he manages to claw his right hand onto the appropriate circle.

 

“Lookin’ a little precarious,” Ethan notes.

 

“Shut up,” Mark replies eloquently.

 

“Left hand blue,” Amy informs Tyler.

 

Relieved, he plants his free-hand on the adjacent blue circle, push-up style.

 

And around and around they go.

 

* * *

 

A twenty-minute gap in the footage finds Mark, Ethan, and Tyler thoroughly ruffled and barrel-of-monkey-intertwined.  Mark has an arm hooked around Ethan’s to snag a blue circle while leaning against Tyler’s side, who has claimed more than his fair share of real estate by claiming stake to two blue and two green circles.  In retaliation, Ethan has a hand locked around Mark’s ankle, ostensibly so he can reach the green circle near his foot but mostly to be a dick.

 

“Right foot red,” Amy tells Mark.

 

“I’m getting a real sense of déjà vu,” Mark says, glancing behind himself at the red circles.  On the upside, they’re free real estate – Tyler and Ethan have bunched up over the yellow and green columns, making the maneuver possible.  Still, he’s slippery and the mat is even more slippery.  He makes it, but the strain is apparent when his foot immediately begins to slide towards the adjacent circle.  Digging his toes in, he observes, “God, it’s so _soapy_.”

 

“That’s why they call it _Soapy_ Twister,” Tyler points out.

 

“Yeah, but—”

 

“Left foot blue,” Amy interjects lightly, sitting cross-legged on the grass a few feet away, a glass of lemonade at her side.

 

“I don’t _bend_ that way,” Ethan whines, maneuvering to try and free his left foot from the yellow space it’s presently on.

 

“Is it too soon to say ‘that’s what she said’?” Mark asks.

 

“If you have to ask, it’s too soon,” Tyler informs sagely.

 

“That’s what she said,” Mark deadpans, letting out a sharp grunt of surprise when Ethan nearly yanks him down.  “I swear to fuck, if you pull me down, I will throw you over the fence.”

 

“I’d love to see you try,” Ethan retorts.

 

In response, Mark seizes his shirt and yanks it hard, making Ethan cry out, “Foul, foul!  No touching!”

 

“I’m not touching you,” Mark replies loftily.

 

“You’re – it’s _contact!_ ”

 

“With your _shirt!_   And in case you haven’t noticed,” he pokes Ethan hard in the side, making him flinch back – and, just like that, he slips and hits a knee hard.  “HA.  HA HA,” Mark crows.

 

“That does _not_ count,” Ethan says heatedly, spattered in soap and scowling.

 

“It does _too_ , it was your turn,” Mark replies cheekily.

 

“Boys,” Amy warns, too late.

 

Ethan yanks on Mark’s leg, catching him off guard, and he face-plants on the mat.

 

“Now that’s just _rude_!” Mark bawls, scrambling to his knees, covered in soap from chin to heel.  “I will _destroy_ you,” he adds, tackling Ethan to the mat.

 

“Do I win?” Tyler asks, gamely holding his position as Ethan and Mark scuffle.

 

It’s all in good fun – even if Mark’s wrestling experience makes his headlock legitimate and Ethan’s tap-out necessary – but he plays up the part by making a show of shaking Ethan’s wrist in a mock angry handshake when all is said and done and saying, “Reset.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Tyler grumbles.  “ _I_ haven’t taken a break—”

 

Mark yanks him by the shirt and he sprawls, star-fishing across the mat.

 

“Everybody happy?” Mark grunts, reaching up to smooth down his hair – and grimacing when he realizes that his hands are disgusting and covered in soap.

 

“Do I get a prize if I say yes?” Ethan asks.

 

Mark sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and promptly howls, “I got soap in my _eyes_.”

 

* * *

 

Once they’ve all had a glass of lemonade and re-soaped the playing field, they’re back at it in no time.  In the spirit of good sportsmanship, they even respect each other’s personal space.

 

It doesn’t last long.

 

“Left hand yellow,” Amy tells Mark.  Kat is sitting next to her, wearing dark sunglasses and nursing her own glass of lemonade.  Mark’s envy is great.

 

“I can’t do that,” he whines, left hand pinned to a red circle, feet on green circles.

 

“Then you lose,” Amy reminds him, and Mark lets out a deep sigh before inching his hand towards the next circle.

 

“I can’t do _that_ ,” he adds pointedly, and slaps his hand on the circle, gripping it tightly.  “Go, go, go,” he chants, straining to keep all four limbs planted and not splayed across the mat.

 

“Right hand green,” Amy tells Ethan, who obligingly shuffles forward, gripping the mat.

 

“Stop _pulling_ it,” Tyler grunts.

 

“I’m not pulling it,” Ethan retorts.  “Mark is.”

 

“ _I’m_ not pulling it,” Mark grumbles.  “You no-good, yellow-bellied, lemon-sucking pansy—”

 

“Right hand green,” Amy calls out serenely.  Tyler groans and struggles to shuffle into position without completely destabilizing Mark, holding court over the only remaining green circles.

 

“Lemon-sucking?” Ethan repeats, amused.

 

“Shut up, it’s 105 degrees out here and I’m hungry.”

 

“We can take a lunch break,” Tyler proffers charitably.

 

“No,” Mark grunts petulantly.  “We’re finishing this.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Left foot blue.”

 

Mark obliges.  “Yes.”

 

“ _I’m_ hungry,” Ethan admits.  “I wouldn’t mind taking a break.”

 

“We _just_ took a break,” Mark reminds him.

 

“Yeah, but that was a water break.”

 

“Is it really a water break if it’s lemonade?” Tyler asks.

 

“Right hand blue,” Amy calls out.

 

“I _got_ this, boys,” Ethan announces, confidently moving his hand from yellow to blue.

 

“Me _too_ ,” Mark chimes in, gripping the mat tighter as his grip begins to slip.

 

“Right hand green,” Amy adds.

 

“Oh, hell,” Tyler replies, right hand squarely planted on a red circle.  “Uh.  Do we get Mulligans?  There’s literally no way to do that without going over Mark.”

 

“You could go under,” Mark adds loftily, too precariously positioned to risk arching up a little more.

 

Tyler snorts.  “Dude, there’s no room.”  Repositioning his other limbs, he adds, “It’s just like friendship yoga.”  Carefully, he crosses diagonally over Mark’s chest and snags a green circle, letting out a triumphant grunt when he manages it.  “Got it.”

 

“It’s _friend_ yoga,” Mark corrects.  “And don’t put your weight on me.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Are too.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“Are _too_ —”

 

“Not arguing semantics?” Ethan pipes in, amused.

 

“Left foot blue.”

 

“Fuck semantics,” Mark says, shuffling his foot onto the space obligingly.  He’s beginning to feel tacky from the soap, and with Tyler’s weight decidedly pressing against him, the thrill of victory is beginning to taste less sweet by the minute.  “Hurry up and lose.”

 

“I’m not gonna lose,” Ethan retorts.

 

“Left hand yellow,” Amy calls out.

 

“I’m gonna lose,” Ethan replies.

 

He doesn’t lose, to Mark’s chagrin, and even Tyler manages to wiggle his foot onto a red circle without toppling over.  Granted, he is _definitely_ using Mark as a prop.

 

“This is cheating,” he grunts.  “Touching is not allowed.”

 

“I’m _not_ touching you,” Tyler says, a grin evident in his voice.  “My shirt is.”

 

“Oh what _ever_ ,” Mark replies exasperatedly.

 

“Somebody’s hungry,” Ethan points out cheekily.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Mark snaps, just to be contrary.  “I’m in a rage because you fuckos are actually good at this.”

 

“Would it be fun if we were bad?” Ethan challenges.

 

“Yes,” Mark sulks.

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“You shouldn’t have picked athletes to play Twister,” Tyler adds.

 

“You’re not _athletes_ —” Mark snorts.

 

Calmly, Amy chimes in, “Left foot blue.”

 

“I don’t _like_ this game,” Mark grumbles, shuffling his foot into place.  “I really don’t like this game.”

 

“Would you feel better if we got Chick-fil-A?” Amy offers soothingly.

 

A long pause ensues.

 

“…Maybe,” Mark allows.  Everyone relaxes, and Tyler collapses in relief – inconveniently using Mark to cushion his fall.  “Fine.  _Fine_ ,” he growls, pinned down.  “We’ll get lunch.”

 

“Angriplier,” Ethan snickers.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mark growls, still trapped.  “And get off me, you big lug.”

 

“What’s the magic _word_?” Tyler asks.

 

Eloquently, Mark lifts a hand and flips him the bird.

 

* * *

 

“Does mentioning Chick by name count as a promotional advertisement?” Tyler muses, driving the van while Mark wolfs down a chicken sandwich in the backseat with Amy chasing down the last of a chocolate milkshake.

 

“Technically?” Ethan says, riding shotgun and picking off the fries in the bag.  “Do we owe them royalties?”

 

“I think _they_ owe us royalties,” Tyler corrects.

 

“Actually, I think it counts as copyright infringement if we make money on their name without a sponsorship,” Mark points out, making grabby hands at the fry bag.  “Gimme.”

 

“What’s the magic—”

 

Snatching the bag, Mark leans back and shoves a waffle fry in his mouth.

 

“You could at least give me my sandwich,” Ethan replies.

 

In response, Mark pitches the wrapped-up chicken sandwich into the passenger’s seat.  “Thanks,” Ethan adds, picking it off the dash and toasting him with it.

 

“Can you imagine getting paid in milkshakes?” Amy muses.

 

“I’d be down with it,” Kat adds, sitting next to her and polishing off her own vanilla milkshake.  “It’s a currency that never loses its value.”

 

“Amen to that,” Ethan toasts, holding up his sandwich.

 

“Until you leave it outside for twenty minutes,” Mark reminds.

 

“That’s a good point,” Amy admits, reaching over and casually stealing a fry.  “Our flawless plan – thwarted.”

 

“Damn shame,” Mark agrees, graciously holding the bag out so she can take a handful.  Hangriplier might go for the throat, but Mark Fischbach is decidedly less likely to bite off heads.

 

* * *

 

That is, until he’s back on the soapy Twister mat.

 

“You know what?  Fuck it.  That’s the end of the game.  That’s it.  It’s over.  We can go home now.  The war is over, boys.  It’s finally done.”  Lying face-down on the mat, Ethan and Tyler half-sprawled on top of him, he announces for the sake of the camera, “Nobody wins because we’re all losers and also I ate too much chicken.”

 

“So which one of us is Dingus One?” Ethan asks, refusing to go down without a fight.  Well – he’s already won, given that Mark is currently bottom of the failed Twister pyramid.

 

“Tyler is,” Mark replies with great weariness.  “He lost last.”

 

“ _Hah_ ,” Tyler crows, lunging upright and making Ethan and Mark groan when he crashes back down a second later, sliding on the soap.

 

“Good job, boys,” Amy calls out.  Kat claps.

 

Mark groans, and they cut the video.

 

* * *

 

“I’m a douche,” Mark admits, freshly showered and sashaying into the main room.

 

“You’re not a douche,” Amy assures, curled up on one side of the couch and flipping through her phone.

 

“I’m kind of a douche,” Mark says, flopping onto the couch next to her.  “On purpose, of course.”

 

Amy nudges his hip with her socked foot.  “It’s weirdly charming.”

 

“My surfer bro persona is charming?” Mark puffs up his chest and drawls in the most stereotypically surfer accent he can dig up, “That’s fucking _righteous_ , dude.”

 

“It’s not _surfer_ ,” Amy says, rolling her eyes.  “It’s more … bad boy.”

 

Mark can’t help it – he laughs.  “That’s why people keep beating me over the head for killing off Darkiplier, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh, you’re not gonna win that battle,” Amy says seriously.  “The Internet is forever.”

 

“I could delete the videos.”

 

“But you won’t.”

 

“Who says I won’t?”

 

Amy arches her eyebrows and plants both feet on his hip.  “You love Darkiplier.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“You do.  You created him.  He was your first ego.”

 

“Pepe the Frog’s creator hates Pepe,” Mark points out.

 

“Yeah, because people ruined it.”

 

“I mean, there are certainly mixed interpretations of Darkiplier.”

 

“I’m pretty sure no one can trash Dark harder than you can,” Amy points out dryly.  “Mr. Angsty Teenage Edgelord.”

 

“It’s the _true_ story,” Mark huffs.  “Everybody just … saw him as someone cooler.  Sexier.”  Lowering his voice to a husk, he adds in a sleepy Darkiplier tone, “I honestly have no idea why.”

 

Amy nudges his hip.  “That’s why.”

 

“My douchey persona is hardly Darkiplier sexy,” Mark points out in a normal voice.

 

“It’s a multifaceted thing,” Amy says.

 

“Hm.”

 

“It’s charming,” Amy assures.  “In a weird way.”

 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mark replies, smiling.


	13. Everything is Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, friends! It's lovely to see you guys are still partaking in this series. I hope you'll enjoy this installment. Things get a little more real -- but we'll get back to our usual nonsense soon enough.

“Hi, guys.  I’m sorry it’s so late – unless you live east of Iceland, in which case, good morning.  I just wanted to put up a quick vlog to say thank you.

 

“I used to do a thank-you vlog every time I got 5,000 new subscribers, but over time it became more and more impractical.  And I’m sorry.  If there were any way that I could fit an extra twenty-four hours in the day and acknowledge how thankful I am to you, I would do it in a heartbeat.  I _wish_ I could thank every single one of you for deciding to support this channel, in any small way.  You seriously rock my world.

 

“My life wouldn’t be possible without you guys.  And I don’t just mean you pay for my food and the roof over my head – I mean you’ve enabled me to live the _best_ life that I can.  You’ve given me the means to pursue my dreams.  I wouldn’t be able to live off of this thing that I love if it wasn’t for your support, and I can’t say thank-you enough.  I wish I could say it a million times.  It would probably take years, but it’s what you deserve.

 

“So, in lieu of the impossible, I just wanted to put out a general thank-you to all of you.  None of you are general – you’re all individuals with your own lives, your own friends, your own dreams.  That’s so cool – and it blows my mind that forty-two _million_ people with their own lives actively decided to be part of this experience.  It’s really humbling.  I literally can’t fathom that number, and I’ll admit, it’s a little disarming knowing that I’m trying to please a crowd of people who wouldn’t fit in the biggest stadium on Planet Earth.

 

“Maybe someday, right?  That’d be pretty amazing.”  _Laughs_.  “All I can see is Felix and his seventy-six million subscribers roaring in the stadium next door.  And that’s the crazy thing, too – I’m American, Felix is _Swedish_ , and if it weren’t for the magic of the Internet, I sincerely doubt we would ever have met each other.  This wonderful smorgasbord that is YouTube brought us together.  You guys brought us together.

 

“And here’s the thing – my life wasn’t unhappy before YouTube, and I’ve been lucky enough to not know extreme poverty or deprivation or half of the greater vices out there, but my life is so _good_ now that I can’t help but feel like my world has more colors in it now.  I’m so _happy_ , you guys, and I hope that doesn’t come across as mean-spirited, like, _how dare you brag about your happiness to us_ , but it’s true.  I’m so, so happy.  I have a dog and a girlfriend and a job I love.  I have friends and a place to live and food to eat.  And I have big projects on the horizon that expand upon what I’ve just begun in the past.  I have literally never been happier.

 

“So, thank-you.  Thank you for subscribing to Markiplier.”  _Laughs_.  “It’s been an amazing journey, and I look forward to our next adventure together.  So.  Go get some rest – or go enjoy some coffee.  And as always – I will see _you_ – in the next video.  Buh-bye!”

 

* * *

 

Within twenty-four hours, #getwellsoonMark is trending.

 

* * *

 

It starts on an auspicious Wednesday morning, pumped up on as much caffeine as he dares to compensate for a restless four hours of sleep. 

 

Despite his best efforts to fall asleep after the vlog, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Forty-two million, four-hundred-and-eighty-six thousand, one-hundred-and-fifty-two people have subscribed to his channel.  It’s a number so huge it often escapes him in his day-to-day life, carrying on his Markiplier business like there aren’t millions of people hopefully awaiting his next video.  Soldiers and students and kids and every walk of life in between check his channel, searching for joy or meaning or _something_.

 

It’s more than humbling.  It’s daunting, it’s awe-inspiring, it’s beautiful.

 

They deserve the thank-you vlog, just as they deserve every good thing that they feel like sharing with him.  He loves the stupid stuff – listening to a hyped-up stream of people on chat chanting CANDY CANDY CANDY makes him belly-laugh – but he also feels a burning need to respect and seek out the more serious stuff, like being the kind of big brother role model for kids that show up to conventions, or fulfilling a Make-a-Wish meet-up to the utmost extent.

 

He loves the Make-a-Wish events – it warms him to know that of all the things on Planet Earth, against fierce competition like meeting Chris Pratt or going to Disney World, people choose to see _him_.  They love him so much that in their worst moments, they ask to spend a day with him.  Just one day, one twenty-four-hour period that amounts to a tiny fraction of his life and a grimly large proportion of theirs.  He’s all easy jokes and happy smiles for the kids and the camera, but there’s a heavy feeling in his chest, too.

 

Too often, he’s heard back from the Foundation to say that one of his kids – and they _are_ his kids – has died.  The reps are always very kind, and they make it clear that his actions had a very positive effect on the kid’s life, but it still takes everything in him to thank them for the update, offer his condolences, and hang up so he can sob off-the-record.  He’s sure it’s a similar story for most of the people who receive the same phone call.

 

Emboldened and depressed at once, he takes a long jog, needing to burn off some emotional steam.  He can’t go _into_ a GamePlay worked up, or he’ll end up emotionally compromised inside ten minutes, regardless of the game.  He needs to be simultaneously calm and energetic.  Gung-ho.  Like Captain Kirk, or Chris Pratt.

 

God, he’d love to meet Chris Pratt.

 

Picking up his speed to a run, he halts around a block with a cramp in his side, left hand clamping down on it.  Waiting it out proves non-productive; the cramp tightens, miserably present.  Taking it slow, he walks home, takes a shower, and heads to the office, pain persistent but not intolerable.  It’ll get better once he’s recording, he knows, settling into his gaming chair with a slight grimace.

 

It _better_ get better while he’s recording, he thinks moodily, loading up Steam.

 

* * *

 

He’s only ten-percent of the way through the maze game when the pain in his side strikes back, making him yowl mid-commentary.  Knowing that he’ll cut the footage out, he makes a point of letting his character die before reloading at the start of the level.  Waiting a long beat, hand pressed hard against his side, he focuses on breathing steadily for a few moments.

 

When the pain peaks to a nausea-inducing level, he exits the game and flicks off the camera, dragging himself to his feet in search of painkillers.  Hunched over, he staggers into the main part of the office where Tyler is skimming through their schedule, making adjustments.  “That was quick,” he adds without turning around, gaze on the computer.

 

“Mm,” Mark grunts, fishing a bottle of ibuprofen from the desk drawer.  It’s a painful fact of life for the avid YouTuber recorder that eye strain headaches are common; fortunately for Mark, it means they keep painkillers on hand.  Easier to bully through and suffer later, but he can’t repress the knife-like pain in his side.  “Hey, Ty, how do you get rid of a muscle cramp?” he adds, voice tight, popping a couple pills dry.

 

“You shouldn’t take those dry,” Tyler says.

 

Duly noted, Mark picks up a half-full water bottle and takes a swig to wash the pills down.  “Muscle cramp?” he prompts.

 

“Right.  You can’t really get rid of them – they’re like the hiccups, they go away on their own – but try massaging it or putting some ice on it.”

 

“Great,” Mark replies, walking stiffly back to the studio.  “Thanks.”

 

“Any time.  Hope it goes away soon.”

 

“Should,” Mark assures, knowing that the average duration of a muscle cramp is only seconds, minutes at most.

 

* * *

 

Which is why, twenty minutes later, breathing harshly through his teeth, he has to concede that maybe it’s _not_ a muscle cramp.

 

“Hey, Tyler?” he calls out, hunched over in his chair, game still playing but long forgotten.  Then he remembers the sound-proof padding, making an aggrieved noise as he hauls himself to his feet.

 

The pain is extraordinary.  He crumples with a yell, startling Chica in the corner.  She pads over to him, anxiously wagging her tail, and he finds it in him to pat a clammy hand against her head reassuringly before hauling himself to his feet.

 

It’s arduous, and every step is agony therein, but he makes it to the main room, leaning against the wall.  “Tyler,” he repeats, voice holding it together but only just.  Tyler swivels in his chair, expression morphing from casually interested to alarmed in less than a second.

 

“Dude, what happened?” he asks, throwing himself out of the chair and hurrying over, taking hold of Mark’s arm to keep him upright as he begins to sink against the wall.

 

“I think something’s wrong,” Mark replies tightly, still breathing through his teeth.  “We should—”

 

“Yup, let’s do that,” Tyler agrees, threading an arm around Mark’s waist and guiding him slowly towards the opposite door, leading to the stairs and the exit.  “What’d you do, throw your chair?” he adds, going for playful but still sounding worried as he feels Mark flinch with every step.

 

“Punted my computer,” he replies, idly wondering how many hours of blank space footage the camera will record before its batteries fail.  Should’ve turned it off, he thinks ruefully, and croaks, “Hey, my camera’s still on, can you—”

 

“It’s fine,” Tyler interjects, and Mark must look worse than he thinks to put that edge into Tyler’s voice.  “Ethan’ll get it, he just went out to record a vlog in the parking lot.”

 

“And he – didn’t invite _us_?” Mark puffs, mock-indignant, as he limps towards the elevator – God bless the elevator.

 

Tyler snorts, says, “You said you wanted to game hard,” and jams the down button on the wall.

 

“I do game hard,” Mark agrees, groaning deeply as pain flexes through his side.  “Tyler, I might throw up,” he says urgently, leaning against the wall, one clammy hand pressed against it hard.

 

“Okay, all right, okay,” Tyler says, and he glances between Mark, the elevator, and the short hallway behind him before saying, “Be _right_ back.”

 

Putting all that Olympic athlete stride to good use, he bolts down the hall, snags a plastic bin from the recording room, and returns just as the elevator doors slide open.

 

“Done with the game already?” Ethan asks, surprised to see Mark, before frowning in concern.  “What’s going on?”

 

“Bin,” Mark croaks, and Tyler passes it to him.

 

He doesn’t throw up, but it’s a near-thing, pain approaching unbearable levels.  He’s shaking now, and Ethan doesn’t ask any more questions as he holds the elevator so Tyler can half-lead, half-haul Mark into it.  Mark keeps a death-grip on the bin, all the way to the parking lot.

 

He has to pause to dry-heave, overwhelmed by the jarring motion of taking a few steps, before piling gingerly into the front passenger seat of the van.  Ethan, obstinate holder of the shotgun seat, doesn’t offer a single protest at the arrangement as he clambers in the backseat, shutting the door sharply behind himself.

 

“We forgot – Chica,” Mark finds the strength to say, holding the improvised bucket close to his face.

 

“I’m on it,” Ethan adds, on the phone in seconds and saying, “Hey, Kat, can you swing by the studio?  Chica needs a friend.”

 

They’re FaceTiming, so Mark hears her response plainly: “ _Where’re you boys off to now?_ ”

 

“Uh – Urgent Care, I think?”

 

“ER,” Tyler corrects flatly.

 

Mark groans.  “It takes – four _hours_ – to get anything – done there,” he protests.

 

“If you pass out, it’ll seem like ten seconds,” Tyler replies candidly.  “Which, you look like you’re about to, so your vote doesn’t count.”

 

“This is – _mutiny_ ,” Mark grunts, lowering his gaze to the bin so he doesn’t have to look at the nauseating sight of passing streets as Tyler drive.

 

“ _What happened?_ ” Kat asks, good humor gone.  “ _I’m on my way.  I should be there in about twenty minutes._ ”

 

“That’s fine,” Mark huffs.  “Chica’s a good girl.”

 

“Uh, we’re not sure?” Ethan adds, looking at Tyler.  “Thoughts?”

 

“No idea, but Mark’s in a lot of pain, so we’re taking him in,” Tyler replies simply.

 

“ _Keep me posted.  I’ll text you when I get in to see Chica._ ”

 

“Kat, you’re amazing,” Mark manages.  “Thank you.”

 

“ _Stay strong, Mark.  You’re in good hands._ ”

 

“Entrusting me to these – _goofs_ ,” Mark huffs, groaning deeply as another flare of pain sinks its teeth into his side.  “Bye, Kat.”

 

“Bye, Kat,” Ethan adds cheerfully, hanging up.  “Almost there, Mark,” he adds helpfully, which is likely a lie with the density of traffic already operating at high, but Mark nods once tightly in acknowledgement and thanks.

 

“Tell her – to turn off my camera,” he adds, straining to keep his screaming internal.  He doesn’t want to completely freak them out – and also even the slightest movement jars his side, making the pain flare.

 

“Got it,” Ethan says, presumably shooting off a text.

 

Mark doesn’t turn back to look, hugging the bin to his chest.  The drive is agony – a four-minute walk is a twenty-minute sojourn by car, but they can’t exactly take a hike on the freeway – and Mark is groaning continuously by the time Tyler parks the car at the front entrance.

 

Eyes closed, he listens as Tyler says he’ll park the car in a minute, hears the clicking of the flashers, and then the door snaps shut before his own door opens.  “C’mon, buddy,” Tyler cajoles, unbuckling his seatbelt for him.  Mark opens his eyes to squint at him, almost stuck in place with how much his side hurts, before slowly, painstakingly shuffling out of the seat.

 

The second he’s upright, there’s a flash of blinding pain, and then he’s on the ground, and Ethan and Tyler both have hands on his shoulders, helping him back up.  His ears are ringing, and he doesn’t walk with them so much as lets them frog-march him inside.  The bin stays with the van.  He can still hears the flashers blinking, even after the walk-in doors slide shut.

 

They put him in a chair in the waiting area, and he bites his lip but can’t stop the groan that erupts from his chest as the change in position sends pain through his body.  It hurts so much it feels like he’s going to fucking _die_ , and he hunches inward to protect himself against it, aching for reprieve.  Somebody talks to him, but he’s no longer paying attention to the outside world, focused entirely on the internal storm raging.

 

A long time passes – Mark suspects it’s only thirty minutes, tops – before the person at his side tugs his sleeve, and he blinks blearily at Ethan, and then at the nurse waiting for him, before standing with great effort.

 

They get a wheelchair under him, which is nice, even if the pain continues unabated, which is not nice.  Tyler is around somewhere – _Tyler went to park the car_ , Mark’s brain supplies deliriously, even though he should be back by now – and he knows Ethan is there, too, but he shuts his eyes, blocking out the throb of pain in his side.

 

It doesn’t work.

 

Clutching his side, he removes his hand for the nurse to examine it.

 

Blackout pain sweeps over him, and he disappears for a time.

 

* * *

 

Ten seconds – four hours, it doesn’t matter, it’s all gone now – later, he blinks at the white tiled ceiling, listening to a prominent, rhythmic beeping, struggling to piece two-and-two together.  The strange, plastic sharpness of an IV in his hand calls attention to itself, and he tilts his head to look at it, even as the pain in his side roars at him.  Grimacing, he shuts his eyes again, longing to collapse back into that pain-free existence.

 

“Mark?” an unfamiliar voice asks, and he struggles to open his eyes, because he doesn’t ignore requests, even if his answer is no.  Glancing at the nurse through narrowed slits, he makes a tiny affirmative sound.  “I’m Alex.  We need to do an ultrasound on your left kidney.”

 

He stares uncomprehendingly.  “What?” he croaks, more in disbelief than confusion.

 

“There might be a cyst present that’s causing the pain you’re feeling,” the nurse says from a distant place.  “It’s a short, definitive procedure.  We just need your written consent before we can proceed.”

 

He glances down at the clipboard, reaches out as gingerly as he can for the pen, and somehow signs his name without dropping it.  He almost laughs at the thought of accidentally writing _Markiplier_ , a mishap that occurred more often than once post-calendar signing.  The exile feels like decades ago, even though it’s less than a year old, but time moves fast in the Internet world.  Five minutes ago is already old news.

 

He holds onto consciousness so he can help out the people trying to help _him_ , aware of Mommyplier – _Mom_ – showing up at some point.  He takes the hand she offers in one of his own clammy ones and squeezes it gently.  _I’m okay, Mom_.  He can’t quite bring himself to say it, forehead tensed in pain, breathing shallow and fast.

 

It takes a long time to get the diagnosis, and a full minute after the doctor finishes explaining it before Mark understands it.

 

_It’s not a kidney cyst._

_It’s a ruptured kidney cyst._

 

Exhaling through his nose, he tries to shove the panic down, the immediate, gnawing fear that he actually _is_ going to die bullying its way to the forefront of his brain.  He’s had kidney tumors before – hell, ten percent of healthy adults do, overwhelmingly benign and many even painless – but there’s something menacing about a ruptured cyst, the implicit understanding that he is bleeding out internally finally clicking.

 

Despite the seemingly dire nature of the diagnosis, the medical staff are calm and collected, assuring him that they can surgically take care of the problem with minimal damage.  They ask him if he ate breakfast and he tells them in a heavy, I’m-tired-of-being-in-pain voice that he did.  A brief consultation ensues, ending with an assessment that since his condition is deemed not immediately likely to be fatal, they won’t be able to perform emergency surgery until another four hours have passed to ensure nothing goes wrong with the anesthetic.

 

Unfortunately, he does not have the good fortune of passing out, and so he gets to experience every second of the intervening two-hundred-and-forty-minutes separating him from a dark, blissful sleep.

 

At last, he gets to shut his eyes and disappear again.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, guys.”

 

Post-surgery, Mark’s voice is scratchy, almost too quiet to be audible, but he doesn’t have a tube in his nose going down to his stomach, which makes life easier.  “As you can see, I’m back in my least favorite bed.  Luckily, I’ve already gotten the scary part out of the way for you, so you don’t need to worry about me.  I’m okay.  No scary nose tubes.  I’m just very tired.”

 

He pauses for a long moment, closing his eyes to recuperate his energy – what little of it he has – and continuing slowly, “I’m sorry to scare you like this.  I’m okay.  I promise.  I know I don’t look okay, but I’m just very tired right now.  I’ll be more okay later, after I take a good long nap.  I think sometimes we all just need a good long nap.  Even Tyler deserves a good long nap.”

 

Tyler holds a thumbs-up in front of the camera.  Mark smiles a little.  “He’s holding the camera,” he narrates sleepily.  “In case you couldn’t tell.  Anyway … here’s the very, very abbreviated version of what happened.  I was on a run this morning when I noticed a lot of pain in my side.  After a few hours, it was bad enough that Tyler took me to the hospital.  Ethan’s around, too.  Somewhere.”

 

He takes a moment to look at Tyler, who nods once.  “So, don’t worry, I’m fine and I’m surrounded by family and friends.  Everything is okay.  I promise.  I know I don’t keep all my promises, but I promise this time, I’m okay.  I’ll spare you the complicated medical diagnosis and just say, outright, that I had a kidney cyst about the size of a lemon.  It ruptured.  They removed it and took care of the damage without complication.”

 

He pauses again, feeling his own words beginning to trail off as he says, “I wanted to update you guys because I won’t be able to upload a video for the next few days and I didn’t want anyone to worry.  I know I’ve missed days here and there in the past, but I didn’t want anyone to worry about my absence this time.  Sorry if I’ve made you worry anyway.  I’m okay.”

 

Softly, barely audibly, he finishes, “So thank you everybody so much for watching.  Everything is fine.  I promise.  I think I’ve said promise like ten times, but I mean it.  I love you guys.  I’ll see you soon.  Be good.”

 

* * *

 

#GetwellsoonMark trends number one on Twitter; #weloveyoutooMark shows up at number three shortly after.

 

Reading the messages, Mark feels warm again, and sleeps well.


	14. Getting Back on Track

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks! Excited once again to bring you more of this absurd series, which will hopefully become even more absurd in the upcoming installments. For now, enjoy a serene walk in the woods!

“Hey, fam.

 

“Nope, don't like that.  Hi, guys.  Welcome back!  Uh.  I guess technically I’m the one coming back, so, uh, howdy-do.

 

“You might be asking, what on Earth are those dummies doin’ now?  Well, the correct answer is, we’re taking Chica on a walk, because Chica is the goodest girl in the whole –” tripping over a branch strewn on the wooded path, Mark regains his balance and finishes casually, “world and deserves it.”

 

“We also thought it was the least dangerous outdoor activity,” Ethan chimes in, following about six paces behind and holding the camera.  “We were mistaken.”

 

“I mean, we _could_ have guns and shoot something – that’s probably more dangerous.”

 

“Neither of us has a gun or a license to use one,” Ethan points out dryly.

 

Mark scoffs theatrically.  “ _Excuse_ you, I happen to own an extensive collection of state-of-the-art, fresh-of-the-shelf, you-bet-your-ass-they-fire SuperSoakers in _my_ home.  But I only have this hand,” Mark adds, waving his left hand, “since I gotta keep Chica-bica from taking a solo nature walk.”  He waggles the leash a little.

 

“Tragic,” Ethan states solemnly.

 

Scouting ahead of them, Chica wags her tail happily, oblivious to the mock argument.

 

“Anyway,” Mark adds, robustly marching forward, “now that I’m finally able to stand up for more than two minutes at a time, I didn’t want to spend this beautiful day inside, so we took a three-hour sojourn to this place out in the middl’a nowhere for some fresh air.”  Inhaling dramatically for effect, he grimaces and flattens his free hand on his left side at a sharp throb of pain, letting out a short little, “ _Hah._ ”

 

“Y’okay?” Ethan asks, half-concerned, half-lackadaisical, playing it either way for the camera.

 

“Yup,” Mark assures tightly, still standing in place.  “Just gimme a sec.”

 

“Take your time,” Ethan says calmly, flicking the record button off and lowering the camera.  “It really is beautiful out.”

 

“I pegged you as a nature-hike kinda guy,” Mark muses, planting a hand on a tree for balance, taking a breather.  “God damn, these stitches are a _bitch_.”

 

“Yeah, they’re no fun,” Ethan says, smiling when Chica pads over for a head rub, readily obliging.  “Luckily, we already got some good stuff from the drive.  Worse comes to worst, we can edit and upload that.”

 

“I’ll be good,” Mark assures, pushing off the tree.  “Ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”

 

“Born ready,” Ethan says, flicking the record button.

 

They walk a good way in companionable silence, the only sound their crunching feet on the hard-packed dirt and pine needles.  At this elevation, greenery abounds; closer to sea level and California is almost as dry as they come, mitigated by intensive irrigation.  There is something refreshing about being in the middle of the wilderness, relying on well-marked trails and the occasional peak over tantalizing cliffsides for navigation.

 

They wind steadily up the big hill, crossing a two-mile marker before deciding not to push it any farther.  “We still gotta get _down_ ,” Ethan points out, and Mark nods without speaking, about-facing and trudging obediently back down the way they came.

 

They pause a couple times to give Chica a drink from a portable rubber dog bowl and down a hearty portion of their own water bottles before carrying on.  Pleasantly engaged, Mark rambles aimlessly for the camera, steps equally ponderous as he picks his way back down the path.

 

“You know, if you told me, back when I was in college, that I was gonna make my living by making videos, I would’ve considered it mean-spirited, because there was no way it was ever gonna happen.  The only job I was ever gonna hold that would put bread on my table and fill my days was that computer job, where I spent eight hours a day on the computer doing two hours of work.  It was mind-numbing.  I used to think, God, this is the rest of my life.  A third of it was going to be spent doing this soul-sucking task.

 

“Then YouTube started hittin’ it off with gamers, and being an overeager beaver I thought, what the hell, I love to game, I can do that.  So I spent a few hours using my big ol’ engineering brain figuring out how I would record the audio for a video and played some Amnesia custom stories.  With little-to-no-editing, I uploaded them.  I never really thought it was going to go anywhere – I just liked _doing_ it, because I liked playing the games and I liked _talking_ while I was playing the games, I was doin’ it anyway – to Tom’s eternal despair – and finally I was doing it and _people liked it_.  And that honestly kind of blew my mind.

 

“I mean, imagine –”  Pausing after a few more paces, he rests a hand on a tree.  Chica obediently stops, taking a seat nearby.  “Imagine someone comes up to you and says that that thing you love to do – whether it’s playing games or writing stories or making music or solving historic murder mysteries or knitting chicken sweaters – imagine if someone said, ‘Hey, I’m glad you’re putting this out into the world, it really makes a difference.’  It makes you feel really, really good.  Like, sure, maybe you don’t know how you’re ever going to put bread on the table _and_ find something that doesn’t crush your soul, but you like to take long drives, you like to swim, you like to solve problems – you _like_ some things innately, just, the minute you get behind the wheel of a car or load up a new game, when you’re taking the perfect picture or wrapping up a new song – you’re _passionate_ about these things.

 

Resuming at an ambling pace, he goes on.

 

“Often times we don’t know what our own passions are, at least, not in the marketable sense.  Like, sure, you love to work with horses, or you love to draw fanart, but how do you translate those interests into bread-earning?”  With a bemused huff, he adds, “I’m saying _bread_ a lot, which is ironically just reminding me how much I absolutely hate that game-we-shall-not-speak-of.  But, seriously – how do you market skills that fit outside the check boxes you see in front of you?

 

“Well.”  Nudging a branch out of the way with his foot, Mark slows his pace appreciably rather than stopping altogether, still talking.  “You’ve gotta look at the things you do even when no one pays you.  Those are your passions.  Your real passions – not just the things you _can_ do because you’ve been trained to do them, but the things you do _after_ you clock out, so to speak.

 

“Now, I’ve said before that I don’t give advice on this channel, it’s all been said before – follow your dreams, be the protagonist of your own story, _carpe diem,_ et cetera – but this is one time where I am gonna say, point-blank, that you need to keep the things that keep you going in your life.  Even if you never make money off of them, you’ve gotta safeguard them.

 

“A lot of people aspire to _be_ somebody – a famous YouTuber, a doctor, a firefighter, a construction worker, a teacher, a soldier – but forget _why_ they want to be that person.  It’s the reason why you’re into a thing – why you’re passionate about it. 

 

“People who want to be famous YouTubers often want it because they want the _fame_ , but they’re unlikely to find it if that’s their primary motivation.  It’s what you do on YouTube that draws people into your circle, that makes them want to know more.  Even if that thing is silly – heck, _especially_ if it’s silly; Vine wouldn’t have made such an impact if it wasn’t for the hilarity that the Internet put into it – even if it’s ridiculous, if it’s something that people want, they’re going to keep coming back for it.  That’s what you’ve gotta _want_ – you’ve gotta _want_ to make videos, for their own sake, apart from the effects.  You’ve gotta _want_ something.

 

“Your work has to align with what you value – whether that’s helping people or making art or building a better world from the ground-up – or that work is going to crowd out what you do value.  And it’s hard to put the puzzle pieces together, to make it happen – to go from yelling at a computer screen alone in your mom’s basement to doing it in front of an audience for a living, so to speak – but that journey, _that_ is the step-wise course-of-action you need to pour your energy into.

 

“Do what you have to to put bread on the table.  I know – on the heels of the _follow your dream_ talk, that seems like mean-spirited advice.”  Halting again, Mark turns to face the camera, a little flushed with exertion but point-blank serious as he states, “Keep having _fun_ , you guys.”  Resuming his walk, he adds over his shoulder, “Even when you’re stuck in a job you don’t like because you need the money to stay alive, hold onto those things that you love, and take decisive action towards making them an even bigger part of your life in whatever way you can.

 

“And, hey – if you love to drive, drive some trucks or become an Uber driver and make some money off it.  If you love to work with animals, vet clinics and animal shelters and zoos would be happy to have you.  If you love to make art, Etsy and eBay and even Instagram offer platforms to expose and market that art.  People sell sweaters for chickens on Etsy, and people write blogs about every topic imaginable, and other people want these things because they’re passionate about them, _too_.

 

“We’ve gotta help ourselves – keep ourselves alive and fed – but we also need to help each other, whenever we can.  And no matter how silly or useless you think your passion is, there are so many other people who love it, and want it, and don’t even know they’re waiting for you to give it to them.

 

“I didn’t know that my channel would bring joy to so many people.  I didn’t know that it would become this hub where we could take decisive action to make the world a better place, to donate to charity, to do some great things together.  But I’m so glad it did.”  He turns back to the camera and insists seriously, “I’m so grateful that my ridiculous interest has allowed me to put _all_ of my values into my work, even if that work is just a walk in the woods.”

 

Smiling ruefully, he adds, “I’m not changing lives out here in the middle of nowhere, but I’m making my dog happy, and Ethan and I sure are happy, and I hope that maybe just seeing all of these beautiful trees and endless blue skies might make some of you happy, too.  Regardless – I look forward to our next adventure together.  And I will see _you_ – in the next video.  Buh-bye!”

 

* * *

 

The drive back to civilization is uneventful, given that Mark sleeps for most of it.

 

Ethan doesn’t mind – he likes the quiet, and he likes driving The Barrel.  It’s a slow, lumbering beast that rarely gets above sixty miles per hour, but it’s steady and predictable, too.  It drives well and it’s very spacious.  And, with the air conditioner fixed, it’s one of his favorite vehicles to road-trip in.  Sure, he has a good time in zippier cars and commutes in more pedestrian get-ups, but it’s a testament to the craziness of his life that one of his best friends impulsively bought a big white van, and now he casually drives it like it’s been part of his family for decades.

 

In a way, there are few things that symbolize Team Iplier as well as The Barrel.  The first human reaction to hearing about it is a disbelieving chuckle, a beat filled with expectation, _you can’t be serious_.  Upon seeing it, pure delight is the only response – there is something inexplicably charming about the monstrosity, bestowed with such fondness and genuine enthusiasm that it has become everything it has been made out to be.

 

And, honestly, it does command a lot of respect on the road.  Nobody bumps The Barrel and wins, and just the sight of it enamors people.  There’s something about it that makes you want to hop on board and take a long drive, to nowhere, to anywhere.  It doesn’t matter what condition it’s in – although, all things considered, The Barrel is a magnificent beasty in good repair – but it promises to be a fun trip.

 

Yep, Ethan thinks, hitting a little pothole that doesn’t even get a flinch from his deeply dozing companions, The Barrel is the perfect car for Team Iplier.

 

Cruising across the barren land, he thinks about how happy he is to be here, rolling across this big sandbox in the west that leads to the cities full of people straining with every fiber of their being to reach big dreams.

 

 _I wish there was enough pie to go around_ , he thinks, imagining the many, many, many pie-in-the-sky aspirations that will ultimately go unfulfilled.

 

But maybe, he thinks, casting a sidelong glance at his traveling buddy, who almost single-handedly helped him get to this point, literally and metaphorically, they can share the pies.  They _can_ help each other out, achieving their life’s work not in isolation but in joyful conglomerations.

 

That’d be a nice world, Ethan muses, directing his gaze outward to the endless horizon.  A piece of the pie for everybody.

 

Since there are few places to drive-thru for pie, he settles on a couple of milkshakes, savoring the cool chocolate taste for a few minutes before nudging Mark awake and indicating the untouched milkshake in the cupholder.

 

“Aw,” Mark murmurs, still mostly in la-la land from the drowsiness-inducing painkillers, “you _do_ care.”

 

Ethan huffs a laugh, takes a long drag of his own shake, and says, “I could’ve dropped you in a ditch somewhere, but I knew that Chica would’ve followed you, and I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.”

 

“Mm,” Mark replies eloquently, taking his own shake and draining fully half of it in one go.  “Damn good,” he assesses, replacing the shake in its holder and his cheek against the window, dropping off almost instantly.

 

“Damn good,” Ethan repeats, amused, as he drives one-handed down the long empty road, savoring his own shake.

 

They’ll be back on track in a couple hours, pulling something close to an all-nighter to record and edit videos, but for now, lazing about in the countryside, Ethan decides that it’s a damn good life.


	15. An Open Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friends:
> 
> I could make excuses for my lengthy absence, and part of me wants to. It would be easy to say, "I tore a tendon in my left foot and it's been on my mind a lot these past three months, especially with reparative surgery looming on the horizon." But that's not the whole truth.
> 
> The other half of the story is that I fell back on a longstanding demon of mine: perfectionism. I've tried for a long time to curb this vice, but I still fall down the rabbit hole of: "It needs to be perfect or it cannot exist." And that isn't the writing attitude that I want - it's one of stagnation and silence, of months without a single word, a single story. 
> 
> Determined to overcome that mental roadblock, I wrote this chapter. It almost doesn't belong in this story, but I wanted it to be here. I want this story to have its imperfections and still be worth something.
> 
> Thank you, dear readers, for continuing to support this story. I cannot tell you what a joy it has been to be part of this fandom and to write this fic. I hope you enjoy this update, and I look forward to writing another perfectly imperfect installment soon.

_“I’m a lucky guy.”_

 

Pitching the tennis ball across the yard, Mark shouts, “Go get it, Chica!”

 

With tumbleweed joy, Chica launches herself across the turf, snatching the ball mid-bounce as it soars towards the fence.

 

_“I have so much.”_

The receipts go on for days, it seems.  A few dollars here, a few more there.  Nickeled and dimed in America.

 

They send thank-you letters, the big charities, but it’s the individuals who never attach “anonymous” to his name that make him feel the most human.

 

_“I always wanted this, you know?  To be happy.”_

 

Matt snags his shirt and throws him into the pool.  Ryan laughs himself stupid behind the camera.

 

_“And I never thought I could make a living out of this.”_

 

The numbers stream past his eyes, but they mean nothing.  They’re numbers, evaluations without emotional value.  The numbers only matter when he digs into good food or tucks into his warm bed at night, and passively forgetting that he can meet his basic needs.

 

_“Honestly, if you told me circa 2011 that this whole YouTube thing was gonna happen, I would’ve just … I would’ve been blown away.  I wouldn’t have been ready.  I honestly might have been scared – knowing what was to come, how many people would depend on me in some way, shape, or form…”_

The shark-fin hairstyle, the trumpeting “hallo everybody!”, the high-pitched shrieks that nearly blew out his recorders and gravelly intonations mimicking character voices, the hours spent rubbing tired eyes or pulling apart string cheese, the mayhem of posting twice daily, the shock and wonder of 1,000 subscribers, 10,000 subscribers, 100,000 subscribers – it belongs in another time, another place, and resides in a void everyone can see.

 

_“I know I’ve changed.  Everyone does.  It’s been ten years.”_

 

Ten years and he’s aged twenty – ten years and he’s learned fully as much as he did in the first twenty of his life, navigating aimlessly, helplessly through the dark. 

 

He’s still in the dark.  When he sets out for a new day, the results are never laid out – there are no videos waiting for him to edit.

 

He has to discover them, find them, _make_ them.

 

Ten years, and little has changed.

 

_“When I look back at these ten years, I wish I could be everything I wanted to be.”_

 

It’s a bittersweet thing – the idea of Mark the engineer, helping the world in a different way, living a different life.  He would never have met Ethan or Matt or Ryan.  His friendships with Bob and Tyler likely would have died out as their worlds moved more fully apart.  If he was lucky, he might still have befriended Felix, might have caught Jack in the whirlwind of YouTube videos, might have known joy with the Game Grumps exclusively from the other side of the screen.

 

He could’ve been an engineer.

 

But leaning back in his chair, arms stretched behind his head as he stares at his virtual work, his entire _world_ , the people who adore and hate him, the people he knows and the people he admires, the people who have shaped his life so profoundly in such a short time –

 

He’s grateful.

 

_“I wish I never broke any of my promises.  I wish I finished every game series that I ever started.  That I tried out more suggestions made by you guys.  That I achieved all of my goals in the order I set out to achieve them.  That I was the best version of myself I could be.”_

 

Sick again, recording in a voice six miles under the weather, he quietly but fervently praises the participants of the latest _Cringe Challenge_ , saluting their ability to be human and earnest and endearing and awkward, all at once.

 

It rakes in a tidy 6.4 million views.  He eats chicken noodle soup and watches the comments scroll by, too fast for any human to read them.

 

_“But I’m only human.”_

 

Adoration.  They adore him – watch him, follow him, struggle to connect to him on a personal level.  When he goes out in public, he is human until he meets someone who knows him through his videos.  And then he is Markiplier, the YouTuber, the personality, the one who must smile, who must pose, or risk being immortalized as that guy that refused to take a selfie with his fans.

 

He doesn’t want fans.  He wants a controlled community, and a small group of friends, and breathing room for himself.  He cannot have everything he wants and still be Markiplier.

 

_“I love what we do together.”_

 

Sprawled in a ball pit, laughing until his sides hurt, asking breathlessly if he’s supposed to be more _adult_ now that he’s in his early thirties – putting on ten layers of pants for charity, complete with long johns and snow pants, walking bowlegged and pretending to be a Suma wrestler – smashing an empty water bottle across the room after the jump-scare of the _year_ , heart slowing as Chica fetches the bottle and rests it on his knee – riding down the freeway in the Barrel, happy to be forgotten in the crowd of night travelers, eagerly watching the countdown to a timely stop at Cracker Barrel.

 

Dragging a pink streak of crushed chalk through his hair in celebration, knowing that he looks ridiculous and still beaming for the camera as he announces, “Happy anniversary.  We’ve come a long way.”

 

_“I can’t wait to do even more cool stuff in the future.”_

 

They don’t see him sitting alone at the table at three in the morning, hand clenched in his hair, agony and ecstasy clear on his face at the thought that he may not finish this script, this goddamn script.

 

It consumes him, in the best way; he falls asleep with the keyboard inches from his face.

 

_“So I just wanted to say – thank you, guys, for making this possible.  I literally could not do it without you, and I – I don’t deserve it.”_

When he misses an upload, because he has no ideas, or he has no energy, or he has other obligations, or he simply does not have the strength to upload a video; when he stares back at the gaps in his record, accumulated in stark contrast to the endless, reliable march of videos posted for almost four years continuously; when he begins to understand why people miss the _old Markiplier_ , earnest and open and a little ridiculous but _real_ ; when he lies out in the grass under the barely-visible stars and aches for another life, a life he deserves, a life that doesn’t expect him to be this much all the time.

 

It is in those moments he knows that he may never deserve it, but he will still accept it – because it is his life, and it is the only one he has.

 

_“And I know … I get … I understand.  I understand where you guys – why you think I’m worth it.”_

 

He cuts out so many hours of footage that it astonishes him that he has somehow successfully digitally deleted whole months of his life, simply by cutting out the void space – the empty thoughts, the passive words, the unstructured phrases.  He tries again.  Relentlessly, he tries again.

 

_“I’m thankful.  For everything.  Which is why I’m here, again – posting a vlog in the middle of the night.  Because I know you’re out there.  And I appreciate you.  I appreciate your support and kindness and endless enthusiasm for my work.  I will never be able to thank you enough for the joy you have brought me.”_

 

He has pictures, thousands of them capturing happy times and happy places, but there are others that hurt – images of the ones who died, the ones who loved the old Markiplier and never got to see who he _became,_ who didn’t get the chance or who felt there was no chance, Daniel, _Dad_ – and he lives with them.  He doesn’t burn them.  Some days he almost wants to.

 

Burn the pain, end the pain.

 

_“I’m thankful.”_

 

Creaking out of bed, he pads barefoot over to Chica’s bed on the floor, and she stirs, tail thwapping the ground, as he crouches beside her and presses a kiss to her forehead, longing for the stability she knows with him, the peace that he will take care of her. 

All the while wondering, _Who will take care of you?_

 

_“We’re going to grow together.  As a channel, we’ve already come so far.  And it just keeps growing.  We can do more and more good for the world and I am so proud of you guys.”_

 

They hug him tightly, like he deserves to be loved, and it leaves him feeling soft and tired and happy at the end of the day, headachy from the convention but happy, nonetheless.

 

_“But for now – it’s time for me to get some shut eye, and I imagine it’s the same case for many of you.  The world is so quiet this early.”_

Stargazing, silent, alone, quietly wondering if his dad is able to see him, and know he’s reaching out across the endless void.

“ _So.  Thank you all so much for watching.  And I will see you – in the next video.  Buh-bye!”_

Click. 

Lean back.  Inhale deep.  Exhale slow.  Regard the recording, the screen, the day and week and year and life ahead –

Smile, a little.  Tired, but happy.

_It’s a good life._


	16. keep having fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of "I will not let the little demon known as Perfectionism take this story away from me," I sat down and wrote another installment. 
> 
> Shifting gears from our traditional "Parkour" fare, we're following Ethan's perspective as opposed to Mark's for this installment. This one takes place several weeks after the previous installment and well after the surgery in "Everything is Okay."
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy, and I am moved beyond words at your support and love for this story. Thank you kindly.

“ _How busy are you today?_ ”

 

Lying with his face smushed against a pillow on the couch, Ethan sifts through his phone and its many reminders for several prolonged seconds before replying, “Uh, how busy do I need to be to not do the thing?”

 

“ _Come to my place_ ,” Mark suggests over the phone.  “ _Five minutes is all I need._ ”

 

Heavy – heavy in a way that feels more like sickness than sleeplessness, even though the latter is truer than the former after a seemingly unending funk – Ethan takes his sweet time getting ready for the day, throwing on an outfit he doesn’t mind discarding should he be pitched into a vat of piranhas and securing an Uber ride within two hours.

 

He barely cracks the car door open before he hears laughter and barking emitting from the back of the house.  Intrigued, he steps up to the doorway and extends a hand to knock when it suddenly lurches inward.  With wild hair and even more mischievous eyes, Mark hauls him inside and announces, “Great timing, we just got pizza.”

 

“We?” Ethan replies, trying to keep the fatigue out of his voice.  _Cowboy up._

 

“You didn’t think I was gonna keep all this to myself, did you?” Mark teases, a hand on Ethan’s shoulder propelling him towards the back of the house.  “C’mon, you’re gonna love this.”

 

The source of the laughter becomes quickly apparent as a brilliant blue bouncy-house comes into view.  “You did _not_ ,” Ethan says, more amused than surprised as Mark abandons him to slide open the door.  “Oh my _God_.”

 

“Ethan’s here!” Mark calls out, stepping forward.  In response, Tyler launches a water balloon that smacks square into Mark’s chest before bouncing off and shattering on the ground.  “You asshole,” Mark huffs, yelping as he ducks to avoid a second strike.  “Hey, HEY, who bought the bouncy-house?”

 

“You actually bought it?” Ethan asks, a little dry-mouthed, approaching with caution, one eye on Tyler and his bucket of balloons.

 

“Rented it for the weekend,” Mark says cheerfully, leaping over a low strike and charging across the grass towards his attacker.  Scrambling from his chair, Tyler circles the lawn with Chica barking in hot pursuit, Mark giving chase and shouting, “Come back here!”

 

Still bouncing in the bouncy-house, Wade greets, “Hey, Ethan!”

 

“What have I gotten myself into?” Ethan asks, a little dazed, as he spares a glance at the table with an open box of pizza on it, Amy presiding over the three boxes underneath it. 

 

There’s a loud splash and Ethan turns sharply towards the pool.  “I win!” Tyler crows, thrusting his soaked arms into the air as he treads water in the center of the pool.

 

With a huff, Mark chucks the water balloon at him.  “Cheater.”  Then, sternly, he adds, “You are not getting in my bouncy-house soaking wet.”

 

Stroking to the opposite side of the pool, Tyler taunts, “I’m not?”

 

“Tyler,” Mark warns, scrambling around the pool and squawking, “don’t you dare!”

 

Slipping and sliding, Tyler manages to squirm into the bouncy-house mere moments before Mark makes a furtive grab for his retreating ankle.  Hopping to his feet, Tyler scrambles away from the opening as Mark shimmies inside the bouncy-house, launching himself after his adversary.

 

Tyler evades his grasp but slips on the plastic, crashing to the floor while Mark trips over him and _oomphs_ in surprise.

 

“Dickhole,” Mark grumbles.

 

Sliding into an empty chair at the table, Ethan looks over at Amy and asks, “Why?”

 

“Why not?” Amy replies, polishing off another slice of pizza.

 

It’s as good a reason as any, Ethan decides, as Wade struggles to avoid being caught up in the Tom and Jerry pandemonium that ensues inside the bouncy-house.  “Hey-wait-guys- _please_ - _I-did-nothingwrongAmyhelp!!_ ”

 

Breathless but beaming, Mark slides out of the exit and crash-lands on the grass, asking the dirt, “There still pizza?”

 

“No,” Amy deadpans.

 

“Well, fuck me, then.”  Pushing himself upright, he looks at them and adds, “So.  Who wants another round in the funhouse?”

 

A handful of towels are produced to dry off the bouncy-house while Wade scarfs down half the remaining box of pizza, Chica sitting nearby and gazing adoringly up at her companions.  Amy dares to return to the empty bouncy-house, getting some good momentum that makes Ethan’s entrance more challenging.  He somersaults into position and climbs back to his feet, arms splayed to catch his balance.

 

It’s addictive, the simple pleasure of jumping up and down on a surface that rebounds so readily, the giddiness of being a kid returning as Ethan bounces higher and higher.  Mark rejoins them and they bounce until they’re breathless with laughter, Tyler popping a squat just outside with Chica, rubbing her down affectionately. 

 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it’s above and beyond five minutes, nearing late afternoon before he realizes the day is winding down and they are, too.  It’s only then, once they’ve thoroughly exhausted themselves and even finished the bucket of water balloons Tyler produced for the occasion, that Ethan looks around and realizes there _is_ no camera.

 

It relaxes something in his chest, even as guilt and a strange sense of anxiety well up inside him.  It isn’t, but it _feels_ like a wasted day – time he could have spent recording, time he could have spent _doing_ something instead of just –

 

_Having fun?_

 

Lying on the floor of the bouncy-house, he folds his arms under his head and asks, “What’s the challenge?”

 

Mark, the only one left in the house, stops bouncing in a corner to ask, “What’d’ya mean?”

 

“Why’d you rent a bouncy-house?”

 

A bemused smile crosses Mark’s lips.  “Because I wanted to.”

 

“Yeah, but –”  Unable to articulate it properly, Ethan sighs heavily and deflects, “Never mind.”

 

“No, tell me.”  Flopping down beside Ethan with an audible crack, Mark huffs, “That was my back, my back is now broken.”

 

Unable to think of a subtler approach, Ethan asks seriously, “Don’t you feel guilty about _not_ spending time on videos?”

 

Mark props his hands behind his head, exhaling.  “Sometimes,” he admits.  Looking over at Ethan, he asks, “Would it make you feel better if we did a video?”

 

Ethan stares contemplatively up at the ceiling, silent for a long moment.  “I dunno.”

 

Lowering his voice – not that it’s needed with Amy, Tyler, and Wade chatting on lounge chairs a good distance away, but the intent is clear – Mark asks, “You okay?”

 

Something burns in Ethan’s chest.  “I dunno,” he repeats quietly.

 

They lie in silence for a time, neither quite knowing how to fill it, Tyler’s laughter carrying across the yard.  “You know, you’re more to the world than a YouTube personality, right?” Mark says at last.  “You’re a person, too.”

 

“I know.”  But it doesn’t quite feel _real_.

 

Climbing to his feet, Mark extends a hand and encourages Ethan to stand.  “What’s going to help you forget about work?” he asks, stepping back and bouncing just a little, feet never leaving the plastic.  “Hm?  You wanna take a road trip?  Marathon _Star Trek?_   Eat pizza till we pass out?”

 

Ethan hates the tears bristling in his eyes.  “I – honestly, it’s fine.  This is fine.  This is great,” he clarifies buoyantly, gesturing around.  “I’m glad you invited me.”

 

“Ethan.”  Squeezing his shoulder, Mark insists, “What do you need?”

 

His response emerges from a small soft part of him: he shuffles forward and wraps his arms around Mark, pressing his closed mouth against Mark’s shoulder to keep himself from crying.  He’s so _tired_ , in more ways than one – tired of always being less than something, a holographic person who doesn’t deserve the kindness heaped on him, who finds less and less motivation to post new videos when there are a hundred thousand hours of new footage uploaded every hour, who doesn’t _know_ if anything is real – and holds on as tightly as he can.

 

Mark squeezes him, letting him hold on, even as darkness descends over the quiet happy scene, and assures quietly, “It’s okay.”

 

Shaking his head silently, Ethan says, “It’s really not.”

 

So Mark holds on tighter, and in the absurdly discordant environment of a _bouncy-house_ , Ethan clings back and tries not to cry against his shoulder.

 

. o .

 

It’s two-thirty-seven AM.  Amy is sleeping on Mark’s bed; Wade went home to Molly; Tyler left, too.  But Ethan is lying belly-down on the floor in the main room next to Chica, Mark sitting nearby.  They’ve got _Skyscraper Simulator_ on Mark’s TV.  They log seven hours and forty-two minutes of gameplay.

 

They’re out cold in less than twenty minutes.

 

 _10/10,_ Mark reviews later on Steam.   _Best Sleep Stimulator ever._

 

. o .

 

Ethan stays with Mark and Amy for a late breakfast, enjoying the mild chaos of a morning in the life of Markiplier, YouTube celebrity, when he has bedhead and is cranky and doesn’t want anything to do with the Internet until he has stuffed at least three pancakes down his throat.

 

“I learned something important,” Ethan preludes his vlog later that afternoon, having cleansed his soul with more time off-camera with his friends than on.  “I learned that life hits us all hard and sometimes we just need to jump up and down until our feelings are gone.”  Stepping over some desert rocks, he adds lightly, “I know that sounds weird, but it’s true.

 

“Sometimes it’s just good to have _fun_.”

 

He ends the video there, and then he takes his drone for a long flight and finds peace in the video he uploads entitled simply, _don’t forget to smell the roses._

 

. o .

 

“I think you’ve found your calling,” Mark muses, cracking his back – which does make a rather horrifying sound, good _God_ – before he flops back onto their work couch.  “That video was – wow.  Makes me wanna take up mountain climbing or something.  Soulful.  Had a nice vibe to it.”

 

“I try,” Ethan says, a tinge of pride in his voice as he watches the drone soar across the setting sun landscape.  “Sometimes I just … forget what I want to share, and what I need.  If that makes any sense.”

 

“I think it does.”  Already lounging with an arm on the opposite side of the couch, Ethan looks over at Mark, who repeats seriously, “It does.  It’s hard to remember that everything doesn’t have to be filmed for someone else’s enjoyment.  Sometimes it can just be ours.  It’s not selfish to want to be alone with our joy.”

 

Ethan wants to quip a reply, something witty and droll like, _That’s hashtag deep_ or _You could make a great side business in fortune cookies,_ but all that comes out is, “Thank you.”

 

. o .

 

They do film a video in the bouncy-house, from the outside on a tripod as day approaches night, the air dark and gold and there’s a howl-at-the-moon quality to the laughter in the air.  None of them are clearly visible, but it’s easy enough to deduce who is who from the height differences.  When Ethan does a backflip, it’s his silhouette that achieves the feat on screen.

 

The title of the video is _just having fun._

 

It ends with Mark attempting and failing a backflip, Tyler’s wheezing laughter accompanying Ethan’s happy giggles as Mark groans, “I think I actually broke it this time.”

 

He didn’t, and they bounce long into the dark, and there is peace and bone-deep exhaustion in Ethan’s soul, and it feels good.


	17. Spaceflight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my dear friends! Thank you again for your support. You are one of the kindest audiences I have ever had, and I'm so lucky to share my work with you. I hope you'll enjoy this update, and I look forward to providing more "Parkour" soon. :)

“I bet – I bet there’s a Markiplier out there who didn’t become an engineer or a YouTuber but an astronaut.”

 

Driving down the highway, heart already beating fast with anticipation, Mark carries on, “There’s this theory – you’ve probably heard of it – where our Universe is just one of billions and billions of others.  We call it the Multiverse, and physicists have spent lifetimes researching it, and there’s evidence – there is _actual_ evidence that other Universes could exist.  And that just fucking blows my mind.”

 

Drifting steadily with the early morning traffic, Mark muses, “If we take the whole Multiverse idea to its logical extreme, then there are an _infinite_ number of other Universes – which, by itself, is an oxymoron because infinity is not a number.  But if there is a ludicrously, unfathomably, mind-crushingly large number of other Universes out there, then every possibility you can think of and endless ones you can’t exist.  There’s a Universe where YouTube doesn’t exist, where we’re all mole people, where the Sun died a billion years ago.  And there’s a Universe where I’m an astronaut.”

 

Thoughtfully, Mark adds, “I almost envy that life.  A part of me wants that – to be able to go into space and see the Universe in all its grandeur.  But I think – you can lie awake at night for years if you don’t accept that there are things that you _can’t_ change.”  Something tightens in his throat, reminding him of the losses, the tragedies, the things he _would_ change in a heartbeat if he could.  But he can’t.

 

He draws in a deep breath and keeps going.  “I can’t change the hand that I’ve been dealt, and I honestly don’t know if I would even if it was possible.  I like this life.  I _like_ being Markiplier the YouTuber.”  A hint of a mischievous smile graces his lips as he admits, “That being _said_ … you’ve probably realized by the title of this video that we’re not just taking a drive out to the desert to launch some toy rockets and talk about space.”

 

They cut to the parking lot, Mark holding the camera out and narrating, “Okay, so, I’m here with none of than Mingus, Dingus, and Pingus –“ gesturing to Bob, Tyler, and Ethan respectively, he adds, “and Amy!”  Tilting the camera to put her exclusively in view, he asks, “You wanna tell ‘em?”

 

“I mean, it’s your vlog,” Amy points out, amused.  “Shouldn’t you do it?”

 

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Tyler adds, leaning back and whistling at something in the distance.  “We’re literally gonna die.”

 

“We’re not gonna die; we’re gonna – wait for it –” flipping the camera around sharply to reveal the facility, Mark finishes cheerfully, “experience zero gravity!  Hurray!”

 

“I’m _so_ scared,” Ethan says with an anxious laugh.  “Why are we doing this again?”

 

“Because it’s cool,” Mark replies, turning the camera back around to face himself.  “I still can’t believe you beat us here.”

 

“You drive slow,” Ethan teases.

 

Huffing indignantly, Mark cuts the video and regroups with the gang inside the facility, explaining in his indoor vlogging voice, “Welcome back to the final hours of Team Iplier.  Anybody have any last words?”

 

“Kathryn’s here,” Ethan chimes in, drawing her into frame next to Mark and himself.  “She promised to eulogize us fondly.”

 

“Flying is statistically the safest mode of transportation,” Bob points out.

 

“The plane is literally nicknamed the Vomit Comet,” Kathryn counters lightly.  “I’ll pass.”

 

“They’ve actually modified it to make it less vomit-inducing,” Mark clarifies.

 

Ethan snorts.  Tyler says, “I feel so comforted.”

 

With a lazy grin, Mark turns the camera back towards the interior of the building and adds cheerfully, “Time to head into space!”

 

They return to the virtual stage midway through their pre-flight dressing routine, sliding flight outfits on top of their civilian clothes.  Mark says, “This is either the greatest or the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.”

 

Already preening in her blue uniform, Amy replies, “It’ll be pretty memorable if the plane doesn’t crash.”

 

“ _Has_ the plane ever crashed?” Ethan asks anxiously.

 

Mark pauses, squinting at the ceiling before adding nonchalantly, “I don’t think so?”

 

“That’s comforting,” Ethan deadpans.

 

“I mean, it’ll be pretty memorable if the plane _does_ crash,” Mark adds, zipping up his suit one-handed while holding out his camera.  “I bet if we all jump at the exact moment it reaches the top of the arc –”

 

The scene cuts off, returning to a darkened room with an educational reel mid-speech.

 

Flashing a conspicuous thumbs-up in front of the camera, Mark ends the debriefing footage and returns to the main vlog outside the facility, offloading from a bus in front of the plane.  “There she is,” he announces off-screen.  “What a beauty.”

 

Panning slowly from front to back, he catches the glistening behemoth in her full glory and can’t fight a smile off-camera.  “Wowie.  What a way to go.”

 

“You’re not helping,” Ethan says, nudging him in the side in passing.

 

“Too late to quit now,” Mark reminds cheerfully, following him onto the staircase.

 

There’s a good amount of intermediary footage that never makes it to the platinum screen – pre-flight checks and seating arrangements and obligatory greetings with immediate companions on the flight – that Mark fills in with a clip from the day he bought the tickets:

 

_“Three, two, one – booked!”_

 

_Lacking a bottle of champagne to commemorate the occasion, Ethan held up his phone, an applause track blaring from the tiny speakers._

 

Heart racing, Mark closes his eyes to calm himself as the plane begins to climb, a joy like pandemonium racing through him.  Amy takes his hand in her own and squeezes it lightly, and he opens his eyes to smile at her properly, and then, they are weightless.

 

After being processed in the editing room, the footage will slow perceptibly, each passenger on the plane lifting gradually from their position on the floor.  It happens fast, almost too fast, in real life to comprehend the magnitude of the event, but there is a stillness and a joy in Mark’s heart that won’t be repressed as he becomes truly, honestly weightless.

 

It’s difficult to film and float at the same time, requiring three rounds to get the hang of it.  Fortunately, the program gives them more than a dozen rounds of weightlessness, and by the fifth launch Mark has his technique locked down.

 

Panning around the plane, it’s easy to see laughter on their faces even as the video plays silently, all the chaotic exultation removed from the film.  Without sound, it is like being in space, watching as people tumble and fly in awed ecstasy.  Mark tucks into a ball, preserving the true sense of weightlessness without feet grazing the floor or arms brushing up against the ceiling.  The detachment from all tethers is almost panic-inducing, realizing for an instant that he is adrift in space more completely than he has ever been before.

 

Despite the noise of the plane and its passengers, Mark’s head is as silent as the final film, absorbing the moment for as long as it will last.  Ethan and Bob both record their own segments of the flight for their channels, sparing Mark the necessity of capturing every second for posterity.  Basking, he laughs giddily and tries and fails to find a single word to describe his delight.

 

There’s a snapped elevator cable and a falling stick figure etched into his mind from his engineering days, a physics equation describing the nature of plummeting so completely that the body becomes weightless in its environment.  He doesn’t feel the panic of the descent, nor the adrenaline of the next crest as they lie on the floor waiting for it.  All he feels is awake, aware, _alive_.

 

The final take of the flight is a still photo of their group in mid-air.  There’s not an unmoved person in the frame; everyone looks overjoyed.  There are tears clouding Mark’s vision as he lies on his back awaiting the last crest, aware that it will all end too soon.

 

It’s still pure joy to lift off, and to know for a moment the joy of that doppelganger’s extraordinary life.

 

The image of floating passengers fades out, and the next scene finds Mark sitting cross-legged on his couch, looking exhausted and triumphant as he says in a voice heavy with bittersweet joy, “It’s rare that an experience renders me speechless.”

 

Clasping his hands under his chin, he _oofs_ softly when Chica hops up onto his lap.  “I’m just – I’m so _lucky_ ,” he says fervently, hugging Chica to his chest and resisting the sudden burn of tears.  “I’m so lucky, you guys, and – honestly, no amount of editing is ever going to convey just how … life-changing it is to experience that kind of feeling.” Sighing happily, he pats his pupperschnupper and concludes, “It was awesome.  It was literally awesome.”

 

In the end, Mark’s video goes up under the electrifying title of _Spaceflight._   Ethan calls his clip, _up up and away._   Bob simply writes, _Experiencing Zero Gravity._

 

Altogether, they rack in almost fourteen million views, a tidy sum for twenty-two cumulative minutes of footage.

 

Mark watches the unedited footage over and over, reminiscing over the flight until his eyes are sore and a smile is etched permanently onto his face.

 

. o .

 

_He dreams of floating, not in the white shell of the plane but in the navy-blackness of space, stars visible and intangible in the distance, silence around him._

_Adrift and alone, he knows peace._


	18. 'Tis the Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, folks! I have had an adventuresome two days, including a trip to the ER accompanied by a lot of painkillers. Don't worry, I'm doing pretty swell, just have a thrown back to contend with in addition to my foot troubles - but now that I'm able, I was delighted to sit down with "Parkour" once more.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I've got ideas for more chapters coming up soon.

“I feel like we should watch a scary movie, but man, I really wanna roast some s’mores.”

 

“We can’t do both?” Amy teases, holding up a bag of marshmallows and grinning like a fiend.  Darkness shrouds the sandbox landscape in cool violet tones, providing the perfect backdrop for their spooky video.  Setting up a tent with Chica underfoot, Bob and Ethan quip over the creative placement of one of the plastic stabilizing rods.  “Let’s start with s’mores.”

 

“We’re out of Smokey-the-Bear land, right?” Bob asks.

 

“We drove nine hours, didn’t we?” Mark counters dryly.  They needed to put some distance between themselves and California’s bushfire-prone landscape to even consider an outdoor fire, but it was worth it: the cool tingling bare-brush vibes make Mark shiver with anticipation.  “We’re in the clear, just keep pitching.”

 

“I think the Master of Ceremonies should be the one to assemble the tent,” Bob points out dryly, curling back another plastic rod threateningly.

 

“No one says, ‘Master of -- OW.’”  With unexpected verve, the rod snaps out of Bob’s hand and whips Mark’s stomach, making him double over.  “You fucking asshole.”

 

“I haven’t been camping in, like, ever,” Ethan says, cheerfully planting a rod in the ground before Bob can add his two cents to its placement.  “At least there aren’t any mosquitoes out here.” Shuddering in horror, he adds seriously, “Or mountain lions.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re well within cougar country,” Mark assures, rubbing his stomach with one hand and chucking the rod back towards the tent with the other.  Graciously, he does not aim it at Bob, who offers an apologetic smile before resuming his tent-assembling duties. Amy has a fire pit already well underway, amusedly listening in on the proceedings.  “Heard one killed two hikers in the area not six weeks ago.”

 

“That’s comforting,” Ethan says flatly, digging in another rod.

 

“Our wolf will protect us,” Mark says, crouching and patting his knees.  “C’mere, Chica.” She trots over happily, pressing her snout against his knee as he rubs her neck down, oblivious to the threat of North America’s only big cat.  “What a good girl, what a good Chica-bica, you won’t let any mountain lions eat us, now, will you?”

 

She aw- _ oofs _ in response, trotting off when Mark lets her go with a parting pat to her side.  “See, we’re totally safe.”

 

“Totally safe,” Bob agrees.

 

They’ve got two cameras set up - Bob graciously loaned his while Mark brought his own fancy-dancy - and decided to slice and dice the footage later rather than try to assemble  _ and  _ hand-film.  It works nicely: Amy gets the beginnings of a fire going -  _ well  _ within approved territory, as Mark happily points out in a brief introduction to the video - and Mark tracks down four big sticks with Chica offering to carry as many as she can fit in her mouth.

 

The tent is a legitimate assemblage, large enough to comfortably sleep three adults in a pinch and two in comfort.  By the time it’s fully upright, it’s capable of housing four adults and one pupperschnupper seated in a close circle.  Were they truly committed to the outdoor lifestyle, they might’ve picked up a second tent so everybody could experience the authentic camping experience, but as it stands Mark has few qualms with spending a night in the Barrel with Amy and Chica instead.

 

“I’m beginning to reconsider the arrangement,” Ethan says anxiously as a near-silent whistle of wind passes eerily over the hard-packed earth.  He turns partially towards it like he expects a ghoul arise, hesitating to turn around completely and face the empty landscape. “No one told me there would be wildlife encounters during this experience.”

 

“There won’t be,” Amy assures, popping open the marshmallow bag.

 

Brandishing the sticks, Mark declares, “Choose your weapon.”

 

Ethan moans in despair and selects a stick, which Mark dangles in front of him - only to yank it out of reach, a snicker bubbling up in his chest.  “Give  _ me _ ,” Ethan grunts, snatching the stick and sullenly spearing a marshmallow on it.  “Why do I agree to these things, you always try to kill us on these things.”

 

“I have never once killed any of you,” Mark replies indignantly, passing Bob and Amy a stick apiece.  “Back me up, Chica.”

 

Lolling happily around the mini-campground, Chica turns towards Mark at the sound of her name and tramples over, hopping up to grab the last stick in his hand.  “No, no, this is mine, I need it for s’mores.”

 

Uncomprehending, she sets her paws on his chest and keeps wagging her tail, nose inquisitively thrust towards the stick.  “No,” he repeats, pushing her down gently. “I’ll get you another stick. Would you like a stick?” he asks, wagging his own demonstratively.  Chica  _ aw _ -oofs a second time - a unique Retriever bark, full of punch and readiness - before tearing off after the stick the moment he pitches it across the turf.

 

“Be careful,” Amy warns.  “There could be snakes.”

 

A beat passes, and then Mark holds up a finger and opens his mouth to retort before lowering his hand and closing his mouth wordlessly.  Fortuitously, Chica returns, tail wagging fiercely as she holds her stick up and drops it at his feet. Relaxing, he lets his shoulders down and says to Ethan, “See, look, Chica scouted out the land and found no wildlife at all.”

 

Casually retrieving the stick, he swings it in slow circles as he saunters away, adding, “We’ll be back, we’re gonna go find the best stick for the best girl.”

 

A two-minute walk turns into a twenty-minute sojourn across the quiet, desert-like landscape, Chica trotting obediently ten paces ahead.  He tries to be a good Papa and watch the bushes for any sign of movement, but as darkness falls it lulls them both into a quiet state of acceptance, far from the sounds of civilization.  It’s peaceful, even more so under a canvas of stars, and he’s reluctant to turn back when they finally stumble across a good-sized stick to bring back to the fam.

 

They’re almost close enough to smell the marshmallows when a loud  _ hiss  _ knifes through the air, Chica’s surprisingly loud yelp making Mark’s heart  _ vanish _ .  Unthinkingly, he charges towards the shadowy form that leaps backwards  just on the cusp of his night vision, too stunned to verbalize a reaction.  Stumbling, he falls next to her, already reaching out, and feels needles sink into his right foot with unexpected vengeance.

 

The sensation vanishes almost as quickly as it comes, replaced with a burning pain, a deep ache reminiscent of a tetanus shot slicing from foot to ankle without warning.  He thrusts out a hand instinctively to block the attack, but it’s already gone, the shimmy of scales moving across sand the only trace of the snake in the darkness.

 

Too dizzy with fear for Chica, he grasps her gently and pats her down, asking, “Chica, where’re you hurt, where’d it bite--” Dropping both sticks, he seizes her in his arms back to camp.  Stumbling into the laughing midst of his friends, he manages a brisk statement, “Chica got bit,” that immediately sets off a whirlwind of inquiries.

 

“Wait, what?” Bob asks, relieving Mark of the Retriever as his trembling arms begin to fail him.  “What kind of--”

 

“I didn’t look,” Mark admits, his own foot beginning to ache intensely.  “I can’t find the wound - we’ve gotta -“

 

It takes them eight minutes to disassemble their painstakingly assembled camp and pile into the Barrel, eight minutes that leaves Mark cold and sick with fear as he hugs Chica.  “It’s gonna be fine,” he tells her, barely aware of Bob getting behind the wheel. “You know where to--”

 

“Google Maps,” is all Bob says.

 

Exhaling against the warm fur in front of his face, Mark hugs her close to him, feeling his own heart pounding as the minutes crawl by, the black landscape changing with agonizing slowness to a more civilized world.  For her part, Chica seems almost as upset as her owner, wiggling in his lap and attempting to lick his face repeatedly. “Good girl,” he tells her absentmindedly, staring out the window and stupidly wondering if Amy remembered to douse the fire.

 

_ Of course she did, you saw her do it. _

 

It was a movie-reel clip, watching Amy pour fire suppressant over the pit while Ethan tore the tent apart and shoved the cameras with admirable speed into the van.  Mark wanted to help, really he did, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, settling into the backseat with Chica instead, staring relentlessly out the front window.

 

They’re pulling into an E-vet clinic and he doesn’t want to surrender Chica to anyone, but his right ankle is  _ insanely  _ tender, ow, and stumbling onto the pavement with her is far from his idea of a productive situation.  Bob carries her, Ethan following at a brisk clip while Mark slinks out of his seat, gingerly putting his foot on the asphalt.

 

“You okay?” Amy asks, and he nods, tight-lipped and afraid, deeply afraid, as he follows Bob and Ethan inside.

 

He’s sweating by the time they take Chica back, her happy demeanor scarcely touched by the urgency of the people around her.  His heart hurts with how afraid he is, and he takes a seat in one of the cramped plastic chairs, and notices for the first time two red puncture marks above his right sock on the back of his ankle.

 

He stares in surreal wonder at the marks, glancing up at the door with numb incomprehension as his friends join him in the waiting area, having turned over Chica to the right people.  “She gonna be okay?” he croaks, hating how raspy his voice sounds.

 

Amy squeezes his left shoulder.  “Of course.”

 

Nodding and dropping his head into his hands, elbows planted on knees, he thinks,  _ I should tell them _ and plunges down a nauseating rabbit hole before emerging to a vet clinician inviting them back to a room.  Stumbling to his feet, he staggers after the tech into Chica’s room, her tail wagging as she attempts to lick the face of the assistant keeping her on the table.  Aside from a little shaved patch on her arm, she looks unchanged. The vet calmly explains that after running diagnostics and thoroughly examining her, they couldn’t find a trace of snake venom in her.

 

The diagnosis is so relieving it’s heady, dizzying, and Mark hugs her to his chest and profusely thanks them for the good news.

 

It is only when he pulls away from her, his anchor, his support, that he feels the world tip unpleasantly, threatening to pitch him off his feet.  Grasping a wall for support, he gazes in blind stupefaction at his own feet, gaze orienting on the now visibly swollen right ankle, and manages a stiff, “I think I need to sit down.”

 

If he sits, he never realizes it - the lights in his world simply vanish, and he disappears with them.

 

* * *

 

“ _ When there’s something strange _

_ In your neighborhood _

_ Who you gonna call? _

_ Ghost-busters! _ ”

 

It’s a faint sound, accompanied by a quiet argument and then a volume adjustment until the song is nearly inaudible.  Grimacing at the throb in his right foot, Mark squints up at a gray surface - decidedly  _ not  _ the roof of the Barrel, or even the tent canvas - and makes a thin noise of disappointment.  He lets his gaze adjust to the IV in his left arm and the irremovable beep of a heart rate monitor.  He exhales. He asks, “I ruined our camping trip, didn’t I?”

 

“No,” Amy says, and she sounds tired, more tired than a late hour can inspire, as she gets up from a chair nearby and steps alongside his gurney, squeezing his right hand lightly.  “How’re you feeling?”

 

He lets his gaze drift to the screen in the right corner of the room, mounted high so Ethan has to crane awkwardly from his seat to see it, and comments, “Why’s  _ Ghostbusters  _ on?”

 

“Because it’s two weeks until Halloween,” Ethan says, like it’s obvious, palpable relief in his tone.  “Stop scaring us, we’re not paid enough for this.”

  
“Can’t handle my -- spookage,” Mark says, turning his hand over so he can squeeze Amy’s.  “Chica?”

 

“Bob took her to a pet-friendly hotel,” Amy explains.  “Since we weren’t camping, it seemed a little unwise to sleep in a van in the middle of a parking lot.”

 

“Fewer snakes,” Ethan points out casually.  Then: “Sorry. Too soon?”

 

“Honestly,” Mark says, voice deep with fatigue, “I’m more mad about my s’mores.”

 

“Bet I could scrounge some up if you promise not to die,” Ethan retorts lightly.  “Seriously. I’m never going camping with you if you’re going to play Steve Irwin out in the wilder.”

  
“Okay,  _ first  _ of all, Steve Irwin was a fucking  _ icon _ -”

 

Whatever remains of the argument is lost as a nurse taps on the wall before sliding the curtain aside and entering the room.  She gets him up to speed and asks about his current condition, which can only be summed up as  _ fucktired _ , before leaving him be with the promise that the doctor will be in shortly to debrief him further.

 

“Terrific,” Mark says, making grabby hands towards a sink in the corner with a stack of disposable Dixie cups nearby.  “ _ Agua _ ,” he moans, inflecting a piteous tone, “ _ agua _ , please.”

 

It’s easy to fall back into his normal routine as  _ Ghostbusters  _ continues to play on TV - “I mean, I’m never one to turn down a  _ Say Yes to the Dress  _ re-run, but spooky movies were requested and spooky movies provided,” Ethan explains - and the realization that both he and his pooch are going to be fine sinks in.  “She wasn’t bitten?” he asks, not for the first time.

 

“Spooked,” Amy says, “but not bitten.”

 

Sighing, Mark admits, “I think I’ll take a little  _ less  _ spookage next time.”

 

* * *

 

At the pet-friendly hotel, approaching two in the morning but strangely awake, they crowd onto one bed and play cards while waiting on pizza from the only joint in town still open.  A weary-looking driver perks up minutely at the warm reception and generous tip provided by the night-owls, bidding them a good night as they devour the boxes in no time.

 

They end up vlogging a little, then, bellies full and spirits surprisingly high, Chica clambering onto the bed and dispersing the cards.  “Good girl,” Mark coos, holding his phone outstretched in one hand as he cups her head in the other and kisses the side of it. “Best girl.”

 

“I was  _ winning _ ,” Ethan says with mock snark.  His voice registers as a seven on the exhausted 1-10 scale,  but a small smile still sits on his face when Mark swings the phone around to show him.  “I was,” he insists, puffing up a little.

 

“Course you were.  And it only took you two hours to set up a tent.”

 

“With my assistance,” Bob points out, regally presiding in a chair nearby, tilting his head at the camera.  “I want the record to state that I was the reason we got the tent up at all.”

 

“ _ Not  _ true,” Ethan says, too tired to launch into a proper defense.

 

“Anyway,” Mark huffs, voice sleep-heavy, “we, uh, we had a little mishap and so we’re gonna have to push back tomorrow’s video a bit.”

 

“You gonna tell ‘em?” Bob asks.

 

Mark considers it - considers the instant flux of messages that would result if he so much as breathed the word  _ hospital  _ near his community - before adding loftily, “Tell who what?”

 

“You know,” Bob teases.

 

“Mm.  Nope.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“What’s who doing?” Mark asks, keeping his own phone trained on Bob while he reaches for Amy’s charging on the table.  “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“You’re kind of a little shit sometimes, you know that?” Bob remarks, but he sounds amused.

 

Tapping one-handed on Amy’s phone, Mark beams and says, “If you say so.”  Then he presses  _ play _ , cuts to his own cheeky grin as the first  _ duh-dah-duh-dah-duh-duh _ fills the air, and promptly ends the video.

 

* * *

 

A day later, Mark uploads a thirty-seven-second clip filmed from one of the standing cameras out on the campground - one of Chica and himself gamboling across the desert-like country under a setting sun, her silent  _ aw- _ oofs accompanied by his soundless laughter as they chase each other.

 

It’s peaceful and sweet and fits the title  _ Best Dog _ .

 

* * *

 

A mere day after that upload, they return to the campgrounds, refreshed and rejuvenated but properly humbled by their experience.  They confine their activities to setting up a fire and roasting s’mores.

 

Mark sets a marshmallow on fire and beams before crunching into a very well-toasted s’more.

 


	19. The Longest Night of the Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, my friends! I hope you'll forgive this late update. I was in Disney World! It was a magical time and I truly enjoyed it. It's taken a couple weeks to get back into the swing of things, but I'm happy to bring you more "Parkour" and hope to bring you even more soon! For now: enjoy, and thank you for reading!
> 
> P.S. It occurred to me that I was completely underplaying Henry's role in this story, so I wanted to change that with this chapter. :) Henry is Amy's pup.

“You listening?

****

“Here’s the deal - today’s sunset is at 4:39 PM.  As you can see--” Mark swivels the camera over his shoulder, revealing a rust-colored sky, “it’s getting dark.  We are fourteen hours away from sunrise, which is just enough time to do what I want.” With a wolfish grin at the camera, Mark finishes, “We’re gonna have a sleepover.”

****

* * *

 

****

4:49 PM.

****

“So, what, you ask, is the essential ingredient to the perfect sleepover?”  Camera pointed near his feet, Mark crunches down the dirt-packed path, one hand loosely holding Chica’s leash, her loping gait on the cusp of disappearing on camera.  “That’s a trick question, because it takes many - in fact, thousands - of ingredients to orchestrate the perfect sleepover. But the first step -” Chica pauses to sniff intently at the ground, tail high and wagging, while Mark pauses to accommodate her.  “The first step is to gather your friends. I have none, so I’m improvising.”

****

* * *

 

****

5:11 PM.

****

“Hey, Tyler.”

****

“Hey, Mark,” Tyler replies, FaceTiming and squinting suspiciously at the camera in Mark’s hand.  His relaxed posture in the Barrel’s driver seat does little to hide his fiendish grin, one hand resting on the inert wheel.  “What’s up?”

****

“You hate sleeping, right?”

****

“Uh.”  Cocking his head to one side, Tyler deflects warily, “What’re you thinking?”

****

“Great thoughts.  Be at my place in ten minutes.”

****

“I’m forty minutes away.”

****

“Coward.”

****

“I’m not getting a ticket for you.”

****

“Then get one for the  _ viewers _ ,” Mark replies.  “Autograph it. Sell it on Craigslist.  Become an Internet sensation.”

****

“Is Craigslist still a thing?”

****

“Probably.”

****

* * *

 

****

5:52 PM.

****

“... how many pizzas should I get?” Amy asks, one hand swinging the car keys idly as she leans an elbow on the kitchen counter.

****

“Uh.”  Mark thinks about it, grunting as he picks Henry up off the couch and sets him on the floor carefully.  “Sorry, big guy, we need this.” At Amy, he adds, “Probably four. It’ll get eaten.”

****

“You’re feeling it.”

****

“I’m always feeling it,” Mark says loftily, ruffling Henry’s furry head.  “So’s this guy. He’s a wild animal; he’ll party all night. Isn’t that right, pup?  You’re the best schnupper in the whole world.”

****

Chica, lounging on her bed nearby, wags her tail, prompting Henry to dawdle over and plop down next to her.  “You’re the goodest,” Mark adds firmly, pointing at her and beaming when she clambers to her feet and saunters over.  Patting his chest, he encourages, “C’mon, c’mere.”

****

Chica obeys, letting him coo over her, while Henry rests his chin on her bed contentedly.  OVerwhelmed with affection for his fur-family, Mark declares, “I’m the luckiest fuck in the world.”

****

* * *

 

****

6:07 PM.

****

The doorbell rings.

****

Henry bawls, setting Chica off as they scramble to answer it.  Ethan barely gets a foot inside before Henry plows into him, Chica weaving around his legs.  “Oh, hey, hi kids, hi, I’m here, yes, this is very exciting, hi.” Laughing, Ethan attempts to divide his attention equally between the two of them and Mark, holding the door open for him.  “Am I early?”

****

“Right on time,” Mark declares, making the mistake of crouching to tug his kids back inside the house.  Henry promptly launches himself at Mark, knocking him flat. Grunting, Mark greets from the floor, “Hi, big guy.”

****

* * *

 

****

6:33 PM.

****

“We on?”

****

“I think so?”  Mark gets off the couch to check the settings again, flashing a thumbs-up behind it as he confirms aloud, “We’re on.”  

****

Stretching his arms behind himself on the couch, Ethan asks lazily, “Who else is coming?”

****

“Tyler’s on his way, Kathryn agreed to stop by later.”

****

“And what’s the plan?”

****

“We stay up till sunrise.”

****

Arching an eyebrow, Ethan muses, “That’s less crazy than I thought it’d be.”  A beat, then, reflectively, he adds, “It’s already …” Holding up his wrist to check his watch, Ethan finishes, “nine-thirty on the East Coast.”

****

Taking a seat on the couch, Mark rests an arm around the back of it, socked feet up on the coffee table in front of him.  There are little pink mustaches on his socks. He wiggles his toes contentedly. “I’m trying not to set the hashtag-worst-example-ever, so I decided not to livestream this one - but don’t worry, it’s still gonna be a long one, so buckle up, kids, we’re going on an adventure…”

****

* * *

 

****

6:35 PM.  

****

“Into the twilight zone,” Mark finishes, his voice a disembodied growl in the near perfect darkness outside.  Chica woofs nearby, and he breaks character to let out a laugh. “Spoopy.”

****

* * *

 

****

7:07 PM.

****

“I hate this game.  I hate this game. I hate even watching this game.”

****

“I mean, once you get used to the, uh - the twitchy - the twitchiness.  Once you get the controls down, it’s really not that-”

****

“Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare say it,  _ I hate this game _ .”  Stuffing a piece of pizza moodily into his mouth, Mark chews fast and furious to add, “You better not beat it.”

****

“Crankiplier,” Ethan snickers, lounging nearby.

****

Mark almost chokes, managing to swallow his mouthful of food and thump his chest.  “Cranki--”

****

“Yup, heard it as soon as it came out of my mouth,” Ethan cuts in agreeably.  “Hashtag still alive.”

****

Groaning, Mark slinks onto the floor next to Tyler, slithering farther under the coffee table until only the top of his head shows on camera.  “I hate this gaaaame.”

****

“Crybaby,” Tyler says, gingerly leveraging his man-in-a-pot onto the next ledge.  “It’s really not that bad, once you get the hang of it.”

****

Twenty seconds and a minor catastrophe later, Bennett Foddy chimes in, “Oof.  You just lost a  _ lot  _ of progress.”

****

* * *

 

****

8:15 PM.

****

“See, now this, this is wholesome family fun with Team Iplier,” Mark says cheerfully, clicking  _ new game  _ on the startup screen.  “Everybody loves a good spook.”  Launching himself from the couch, he kills the lights, using the TV’s glow to navigate back to base.  “There, now it’s properly spooky.”

****

“I don’t like this,” Amy declares, sitting on the floor next to Ethan, Henry half-sprawled in her lap.

****

“You’ll do great,” Mark assures.  “Just don’t let them in.”

****

“That easy, huh?”

****

“Mmhm.”

****

On screen, a cheerful voice assuages, “Hello, hello?  Hi, and welcome to your new job at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria.”

****

* * *

 

****

8:48 PM.

****

“How is it only nine o’clock?”  Lying on the floor again - it’s  _ comfy _ , and even better with Chica sprawled next to him - Mark laments, “Why are we so old?”

****

“ _ I’m  _ not tired,” Ethan says loftily, sitting upright and alert on the couch as he tries his hand at  _ Getting Over It _ .  “Get on my level.”

****

Mark holds up a hand and deliberately flips him the bird.

****

* * *

 

****

9:02 PM.

****

Lying upside-down on the couch, feet hung over the back, Mark declares, “New rule.  It dark, we go night-night.”

****

“No one’s forcing you to stay awake,” Ethan reminds him.

****

“Shut mouth.”

****

* * *

 

****

9:13 PM.

****

“Caffeine.  You can make it in your backyard.  Probably. It was invented by aliens, bestowed upon us one celestial evening, and we mortals … we were not ready.  But  _ caffeine _ .  This elixir of the gods - this was the key to all of our hopes and dreams.   _ No longer  _ were we captive to our bodies’ natural desire to rest.  Oh, no, no.” With a fake chuckle, Mark assures, “No, we -”  thumping a hand on the island, he completes, “we were destined to rise above it.”

****

“You still wanna play Uno?” Tyler asks from the kitchen table.

****

“No man was meant to wield this much power,” Mark finishes gravely, slugging down another cup of coffee.

****

* * *

 

****

10:22 PM.

****

Sprawled out on the floor, the pupperschnupps barely react to the occasional loud-mouthing from the kitchen.

****

Eventually, the festivities die down to a more sedate card game of  _ War _ , the slap of cards on the table almost soothing.

****

Kathryn does not make Ethan’s mistake upon arrival  - she texts that she’s there and Mark lets her in before the pups can give her the full greeting.  Chica still bambles over, Henry in tow, for a more sedate introduction. “Hope I’m not too late,” she says apologetically.

****

“Party’s just getting started,” Mark assures.

****

* * *

 

****

10:51 PM.

****

They’ve been streaming nonstop for five hours.

****

Mark blinks the sleep out of his eyes as he addresses his invisible future audience, slouched on the couch and philosophizing about pineapples on pizza.  “We could’ve had - honestly, we could’ve had so much more, you guys. I would rather eat a pizza with Rice Krispies treats on them than pineapple.” Pausing thoughtfully, he looks at his small real audience and asks, “Why does that sound good?”

****

“They already make Rice Krispies treat pizza,” Tyler points out tirelessly, cracking the seal on a fresh can of soda.

****

Mark blinks owlishly down at him.  “Really?”

****

Nodding, Tyler explains, “Yeah, you just - bake a big Rice Krispies treat in the shape of a pizza.”

****

Shaking his head, Mark says, “That’s cheating.  I’m talking, real deal, you cronch a goddamn pizza with Rice Krispies treats on it.”

****

“If you’re gonna substitute pizza for Rice Krispies treats, you should just go the full nine-yards and make a cookie cake,” Amy offers from the peanut gallery.

****

“That’s delicious,” Mark complains.  “I want an abomination of nature. An atrocity on par with pineapples on pizza.”

****

“Pretzels on pizza,” Ethan chimes in.

****

“Lame and probably tasty.  Something worse.”

****

“Peppermint,” Kathryn submits.

****

Mark scrunches up his nose.  “Now see, that’s the kind of creative thinking I’m talking about.”

****

* * *

 

****

11:16 PM.

****

The kids are tired, and Mark knows they want to go to bed, but they don’t leave the main floor if he’s still up and at ‘em.  He makes a show of yawning, stretching his arms, and plodding off to the stairs. Tail wagging slowly, Chica follows him gratefully.  With lazy satisfaction, Henry hops up on the couch and lies flat on his side, watching Mark and Chica. Mark walks back over and scoops Henry up, carting him off to the stairs without missing a beat.

****

He expects Chica to follow at his heels, but she waits patiently at the bottom for him to return, and allows him to carefully pick her up and set her down on the floor at the top of the steps.  “Getting too old to carry you guys,” he says, a real yawn cracking his jaw as he pads off to the bedroom. He flops onto his bed, fully dressed and on top of the covers, listening for the click of claws to follow.

****

Henry doesn’t even put up his usual show of hopping on the bed before being gently guided back down and to his own bed; he just curls up in his corner and snoozes.  Chica does the same, and soon all Mark can hear is the soft sound of their breathing, his own eyes sliding shut for a moment.

****

* * *

 

****

11:47 PM.

****

There’s a light knock on the doorframe, and Mark opens his eyes to see Amy lounging against it.  Too tired to respond, the kids lie flat on the floor. Mark leverages himself up to a seated position, rubbing a hand across his face.  “Is it sunrise yet?” he asks.

****

“Nobody’s making you do this,” Amy replies, sauntering into the room and taking a seat on the end of the bed.  “I already said bye to Kathryn. Tyler and Ethan are playing Mario Kart.”

****

“Bastards,” Mark says fondly, trying to scrub the sleep out of his eyes.

****

Shimmying closer, Amy rests a hand on his shoulder and says seriously, “Don’t hurt yourself.  If you wanna call it off, I’m sure they’d be happy to go home and sleep in their own beds.”

****

“We’re old and pathetic,” Mark says, a touch of misery in his tone as he drops his hand and looks at her.  “Can’t even pull off an all-nighter.”

****

“That’s not a bad thing,” Amy points out.  When he doesn’t reply, she shuffles close enough to wrap an arm around his waist, head on his shoulder.  “What do you want to do?”

****

Mark doesn’t respond immediately, letting his cheek rest against her head, eyelids sinking low.  It’s hard not to doze off, but he clings to his senses, saying gruffly, “Finish what I started.” With a heavy sigh, he lifts his head, bracing himself to stand - before suddenly, gratefully, letting the tension melt out of his shoulders.  “I think I have the perfect compromise.”

****

* * *

 

****

12:01 AM.

****

‘ _ Twas the night after solstice, and all through the manor, at last they had found an end to the clamor... _

****

Panning slowly around the darkened main room, the camera reveals Tyler lying under the coffee table, snoring audibly, while Ethan rests in a curled up position on top of the kitchen island, head cushioned by a pink mustache pillow.  The camera wanders around the darkened space, observing the neatly piled deck of cards, the abandoned video console and the quiet laptop screens, before at last settling on the occupant sprawled carelessly across the bottom stairs, mouth agape, an empty pizza box cradled to his chest.

****

On the box, clearly visible despite the dim lighting, were the Sharpied words, “NEVER SURRENDER.”

****

* * *

 

****

12:05 AM.

****

Having achieved their cinematic moment, Tyler and Ethan rearrange themselves to claim the couch and the floor, respectively, dozing off soon after.  Dragging his feet, Mark forces himself to climb the stairs once again, gratefully collapsing on top of the bed. He is dimly aware of Amy joining him a short time later, curling up under the covers beside him, a warm and irrepressibly fuzzy feeling building in his chest.

****

_ The key ingredient to the perfect sleepover,  _ he reflects,  _ is sleep _ .

****

Content, he drifts off, remembering with seven seconds of consciousness to spare to set his phone alarm.

****

* * *

 

****

6:25 AM.

****

Everything is quiet, and Mark is careful to keep it that way, tiptoeing around, wearing the same outfit as the night before.  He feels heavy and eager to fall back onto his comfy sleep-warmed mattress, but he tucks his feet into a pair of shoes and steps outside instead.

****

It’s dark, cool, and quiet.  He puts the key in the ignition and takes the Barrel out of town, finally pausing in one of California’s sandboxes.  Stepping outside into the early morning light, he holds up his phone and patiently films the sunrise.

****

At the very end, soft enough to not startle, he says simply, “Good morning, everybody.”

****  
  



	20. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, and happy New Year! I hope I haven't arrived too late to the party. :) I brought more "Parkour," and as is tradition in the wake of another unplanned hiatus I've shifted gears somewhat with this installment. Don't worry: our usual garbo program will resume in the next chapter. For now -- enjoy, and thank you as always for loving this story in any way, shape, or form. <3

Twitching fingers grasp for a weapon in the sheets.  There are no weapons.  His breath comes quick; his heart pounds.  He cannot fight; he must evade.

 

In the impenetrable darkness of the dream, he hears a sound like a door being slammed.  He flinches.  The sound – heavy, ephemeral, passing by and standing still – is not a door but a monster closing in, ready to devour.  Again, empty hands grasp at empty walls.  There are no weapons.  He cannot fight.  He must evade.

 

Backing down the hallway only increases his sense of dread.  His footsteps are leaden.  He can move faster than this.  He has to.  The drumbeats of a monster’s footsteps are behind him.  _Don’t turn around_.  He has to.  _Don’t look_.  He doesn’t.

 

He quickens his pace.  His breath stutters when the first baleful cry echoes down the tunnel, a cry  from a man being tortured.  With each loping step, the monster’s cries grow in intensity.  He knows that the monster uses words, but he cannot decipher them in the context of a dream.

 

He is dreaming.  It does not feel like dreaming.

 

He quickens his pace.  Only his pounding heart responds to the call to action; if anything, the anchors on his feet grow heavier, slowing him down.

 

Panic calls out to him.  _Run.  Run while you still can._  

 

He can’t.

 

He shuts his eyes and urges his dream self to respawn.  Appear anywhere but here.  Despite his own impotency in the unreal world, it feels reasonable to implore the dream, to urge it to banish and reconstruct reality.  The catacombs do not listen.  His feet are encased in slow-moving quicksand.  A slow and horrible death awaits him.

 

The monster closes in.

 

There is no warning, no preceding roar – one moment he is trapped in his own dream, the next he is twisting sharply away from the creature as a phantom claw lands on his phantom shoulder.

 

Lurching away from the sheets twisted around him, Mark struggles to put nothing between himself and the cool night air.  His sweaty torso reflects the frantic exertions; a wild glint in his eyes stays as he surveils the room.  Realizing that there is no one brings him little comfort.  It only seems to make the possibility of a monster lurking in the hallway more probable.

 

Chica watches him balefully from her corner, her sleepy pup expression unable to process his mental anguish.  Methodically, restlessly, he bunches up the sheets and shoves them off the bed into a heap on the floor.  He inhales and exhales once deliberately.  He flops back onto the mattress, exhausted to his bones, but sleep will not find him.  The paranoia lingers.

 

It is dawn before he can feel his animal fear to retreat, dawn before the thought of a monster in his home seems almost laughable.  _Just a dream_ , he thinks.  It’s always just a dream, but life is its own dream, an amalgamation of sensory inputs creating reality.  It does not bring him comfort.

 

Running on three hours of sleep and copious amounts of coffee, he arrives at the office and sinks himself into his work, searching for and finding ways to banish the obstacles he finds in the virtual world.

 

* * *

 

Every damn night there’s a new menace.

 

Sometimes it’s a monster, the reptilian brain’s reminder that unarmed and unable to escape an arena, he is powerless.  Other nights it’s an elevator whose cables whine and seesaw as they threaten to break or the claustrophobic walls of a cave-in crumbling inward: pressing in, shutting down.  Still other nights it’s drowning in the middle of the goddamn ocean, choking on phantom water as he drags it into phantom lungs. 

 

Psychological horrors exist, too.  He knows too well the pain of finding a loved one who has not passed on in the real world has been died in the dream world, an anguish like poison that lingers even after he awakes.  Some of the worst nights involve tropophobia-like horrors: afterward, he itches for days at the sight of his own skin, knowing what it looked like pockmarked and distorted in the phantom world.  He hates how imaginative the human mind can be.  The dreams are varied enough to remain unpredictable; he never knows exactly where he will end up when he shuts his eyes and falls asleep.

 

He hopes, against hope, that it will be somewhere peaceful.

 

* * *

 

It’s only three in the afternoon. 

 

Mark sags in his recording chair and lets out a vehement sigh.  He wants it to be late so he can excuse himself from putting in work and just shut his eyes, but it’s not – and outside the dark confines of the recording room, it’s sunny and bright, middle-of-summer warm.  Staring at the pause screen on the monitor, he claws for the momentum needed to start again, aware of the glowing red eye still watching him, recording him.

 

He can cut out hours if needed, but it’s tedious, and it wears down the camera battery.

 

With a heavy sigh, he shuts off the recording altogether, closes out of the game, and gets up from the chair.

 

There’s no upload that day.  He doesn’t say why.  Nobody needs to know.

 

* * *

 

Amy, though – Amy is a knower.

 

She has always been a knower, the kind of person who notices things that change.  Haircuts always attract her eye, as do alterations in fashion and hobbies in general.  She notices the habits of creatures: how people around her thrive and survive, and how the slightest variation in their routine may be the first sign of a far deeper issue.

 

No one is truly predictable, but often times she picks up on the undertones of something awry long before her friends hear the first rumble of thunder.  She knows what normal, and _not-normal_ , look like.

 

She doesn’t push; she is not a pusher.  But she makes herself available, listening more and being more attentive, in the hopes that her presence might offer some comfort to those struggling around her.

 

In a crisis, she notices, Mark responds one of two ways: he hunkers down or he becomes a supernova.  He puts on a dazzling show of deceptively high energy, cranking out five or six videos a day, uploading just one or two at a time to keep the masses from developing a taste for five or six videos a day.  He Tweets; he updates his Instagram; he works long and hard and brilliant until he is not merely running on fumes but pushing the proverbial car across the desert.

 

The burst might last for days but inevitably it dies out.  The change is stark.  It’s awesome to watch Mark thrive, but it’s painful to see him crash.  Frankensteinian, he lurches out of his lair and makes one-syllable responses to any questions tossed his way, beelining for the door, escaping the pressure of being known into the anonymous world outside.

 

At times like this, he doesn’t invite her to his sanctum sanctorum, so she invites him to hers.  She can almost see the mental seesaw as he debates his answer.  Instead of waiting by the phone, she takes Henry for a walk, basking in the early-evening air and letting her own mind go pleasantly blank.

 

It’s almost seven when her phone buzzes, the leftovers of dinner tucked neatly in the fridge while she and Kathryn lounge about the house, halfheartedly watching a show about remodeling homes.  _Sorry it took so long,_ he writes without explanation.  _Still want me?_

 

She taps out a simple affirmative, grazing her hand over Henry’s fur as he sits on the floor next to her.  Kathryn sits at the kitchen table with her computer, occasionally firing off a remark about the show that Amy is only half-watching that Amy halfheartedly agrees to.  When the doorbell rings, Henry bawls, immediately setting off an answering series of barks behind the door.  Smiling, Amy scrambles to open it as quickly as she can, hoping to keep the noise complaints to a minimum this year.

 

Chica almost bowls Henry over, unleashed and wagging her tail.  Henry tucks himself so small that he fits between Amy’s legs, but his tail thwaps back and forth against her calves, his body language more shy than frightened.

 

“Hey,” Mark greets, stepping carefully around Chica so he can hug Amy, holding on for just a moment before letting go.  “I brought a friend.”

 

“A good friend,” Kathryn pipes in as Chica dawdles over, tail still swishing back and forth cheerfully.  “Aw, what a good girl,” she coos, abandoning her work to cup Chica’s head in her hands.  “You’re the best girl.”

 

“You’re not half-bad yourself,” Amy tells Mark, brushing a hand across his wrist in a comforting squeeze.

 

“I try to be the very best girl I can be,” Mark replies solemnly, making Amy laugh.  His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he doesn’t make a sound.  He looks tired.  There are no shadows under his eyes, but the laugh lines aren’t there either, and his skin has a pale, almost grayish cast to it.  It’s subtle, hard to spot even up close, unless you know what Mark looks like three days into a bad cold.

 

Amy is a knower.  She asks about his day to keep the atmosphere light and overtly normal, but her efforts are more concentrated on the hand she tucks into his shirt, gently tugging him towards the couch.  He replies with ample courtesy, talking about his upcoming plans and glossing over any hard deadlines.  It’s all wrapped up in “someday.”  She can tell by his tone that he’s putting it all in a box for later.

 

The energy, the gusto, the verve of even twenty-four-hours ago simply isn’t there.  Amy sits on the couch and Mark almost falls into her as he settles nearby, leaning into the cushions as Henry pads over, tail wagging low, shy.  He curls up near Amy’s feet.  “Good pup,” she says, leaning forward so she can ruffle the fur at his neck affectionately, releasing him after a moment and lounging in the couch corner.

 

Intuition prompts her to rest an arm along the back of the couch, so she does.  She asks Kathryn if she can bear to part with HGTV, to which Kathryn gravely replies that she can – she wants to head out and pick up some fresh coffee, anyway.  Amy browses Netflix, tracks down the latest _Star Wars_ movie (hard to believe they hit _twelve_ already), and puts it on.  It’s an easy choice: space is rarely a bad bet with Mark.

 

As the opening credits roll, Mark toes off his shoes belatedly.  Chica trots over and lies down under the coffee table, tail swishing back and forth, contented.  Amy relaxes, comforted by the presence of her human and furred companions.

 

It takes a full act to get Mark to relax enough to settle against her, testing the waters with a gentle lean against her side.  With equal caution, looking to encourage rather than deter, she wraps a hand in his shirt over his opposite shoulder.  She holds on loosely, stroking the soft fabric and skin underneath.

 

With an exhale that seems to come from his soul, he tucks himself more emphatically against her side, one arm extending around her middle and anchoring.  He tucks his cheek against her belly, barely making a pretense of still _watching_ the movie, but she doesn’t turn it off.  Instead, she simply makes herself comfortable, sliding her hand from shoulder to back, stroking in long, smooth lines.

 

He breathes softly, heavily, as she watches the heroes on screen descend into the inferno.  She notices the little twitches, almost imperceptible, against her hip as Mark’s fingers flex unconsciously.  A little rearranging allows her to lie properly on the couch, his barely conscious cooperation enabling her to get his bulk situated in a more amenable cuddling position.

 

He’s out cold, then, his breathing even deeper, his weight heavy but welcome.  She gives up watching the movie and simply holds onto him, overwhelmed with affection.  She doesn’t care what time it is or even how much time passes.  She measures it with each reflexive movement he makes, each twitch, each catch in his breath.  She starts to feel sleepy and almost sinks under her own blanket of dreams when he flinches, making a soft distressed sound.

 

He wakes himself up before she even thinks to, his gaze shifting blearily to the TV.  She can see the wild look in his eyes, like he expects something terrible to happen.  She doesn’t say anything, letting him catch up.  His breathing softens; his muscles relax.  He drifts back under, his questions unanswered, hers unspoken.

 

Kathryn returns at some point, but she is barely there, announced solely by Chica lumbering over for more attention.  Amy closes her own eyes, arms wrapped around Mark’s back, blanketed in his warmth, basking in his presence.  Like this, he is so human that the idea of Markiplier seems like a distant, intangible, unreachable thing.  They can’t be the same person.

 

They just can’t.

 

Maybe they aren’t, she muses.  Markiplier is a celebrity, a personality, an ego as much as any other he’s created, but Mark is – vulnerable, in a way that even Markiplier with tears streaming down his face isn’t.  Because there is always a guardedness to Markiplier’s vulnerability, aware that he can be honest but not unprepared for the potential repercussions.  Given the opportunity, the world will ruthlessly cut down the ones who bare their heart too openly.  She’s seen it, learned to ignore it, just like she ignores the people who tell her that she cannot be a worthy partner for the godlike Markiplier.

 

He breathes against her, his unassuming presence so vulnerable it aches in her.

 

He trusts her to keep the world at bay in moments like this.  So she does.

 


End file.
